


Maysilee: Canary in the Coal Mine

by WildcatPacer



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 48
Words: 186,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29182326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildcatPacer/pseuds/WildcatPacer
Summary: "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the winner of the 50th annual Hunger Games…. Maysilee Donner! I give you... the blonde beauty from District 12!" What if the drunk was never the mentor? What if the Mockingjay had a mother bird to turn to for guidance? What if the Boy with the Bread had a happier childhood? What if Maysilee Donner was Twelve's second Victor of the Hunger Games?
Relationships: Haymitch Abernathy/Maysilee Donner, Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark, Maysilee Donner/Mr. Mellark, Mrs. Everdeen/Mr. Mellark (Hunger Games)
Comments: 69
Kudos: 16





	1. Blonde Beauty Kissed by Death

****

**Chapter 1: Blonde Beauty Kissed By Death**

I hate Reaping Day.

Only one good thing can be said about the district holiday which takes place on the Fourth of July every year, a day that has been sacred for centuries upon centuries going all the way back to the ancient Americans: Reaping Day means a half day of school.

The Reaping isn't scheduled to start until 2:00, but we students get the afternoon off. Mandatory early release is always scheduled for 11 AM in both Upper and Lower School. Tapping my pencil against the side of my desk, I check the wall clock - 10:45. Fifteen minutes to go in my third period literature class.

Scanning the room, my eyes lock with those summer-sky blue ones of Belle Foley, who sends me a pretty smile of encouragement. My gaze weaves down her body once I catch the almost imperceptible sway of her thigh, the motion going all the way down to her feet. She's playing footsie under the desks with Danny Mellark, her boyfriend of two years. The Baker's only son gives me a smirk and a subtle wink. A wry grin of my own tugging at my lips, I fight the urge to scoff. The least the two lovebirds could do is be subtle about it! But then again, my best friend and her lover have never exactly been subtle about their feelings.

Foley's Apothecary and Mellark's, the Bakery in Town, are directly across the street from each other. Belle and Danny have been playmates since we were big enough to crawl. In Lower School, the baker's boy had an annoying habit of tugging on the long and flowing blonde locks of the apothecary's youngest child and only daughter. He eventually grew out of it, but by that time, Belle despised him.

Things changed as we matriculated into Upper School. Danny's weird fetish of tugging Belle's braids had morphed into lingering stares at her from across the play-yard or the library when he thought she wasn't looking. He must have been an idiot to think that Belle wasn't also checking him out, however much she insisted to me and Kaydilyn, my twin sister, that his gaze unnerved her. I think of a passage in Shakespeare, one of the most prominent, olden authors we are still allowed to study in Panem: _Methinks she doth protest too much_. The whole affair finally came to a head two years ago, towards the end of the first week of term. Danny had been spying on Belle, Kaydilyn and I from behind a bookshelf, until, frustrated, Belle had marched up to the man and said, "Dannel Mellark, if you keep staring at me like that, then I'm gonna keep staring back, which does neither of us any good. So I think we should go out on a date!" This phrase was nearly yelled in front of our entire grade, so loudly that Mrs. Falstaff, the librarian, had rushed over to shush her.

For his part, Danny Mellark was so tongue-tied that he nearly forgot to get out an "OK." He had met his match.

The pair have been kissing and playing footsie and making googly eyes at each other ever since. Eli Cartwright, the postmaster's son, started a betting pool during last year's Games to determine when Danny and Belle are going to have their Toasting. I contributed my monthly allowance - a handsome sum - to the pot. My sister did not. She has more important things to do - namely, plotting a revolution against the Capitol that still only exists in her own mind. Glancing back over my shoulder, I can see her mumbling with Merle Undersee, son of our District's Mayor. Everyone expects the boy to become Mayor in his own right - after all, our Mayors are "elected" by what our History teacher would likely term hereditary monarchy. The mayorship passes down from father to son in District 12, unlike in Districts 1, 2 and 4, who are actually given free enough reign to elect their own representative to the Justice Building. The most of what I can say about the other districts (at least, what the government allows us to know) is that their Mayors are Capitol liaisons, specially appointed by the President. Yes, Merle Undersee will be Mayor sometime in the not-too-distant future, barring something unforeseen.

Like getting Reaped for the Hunger Games.

"I'm telling you, if we could take the district armory..."

"Keep your voice down, Kay!" Merle hisses, glancing furtively about. At the blackboard, our teacher stills in her scraping of the chalk, but doesn't turn her head, quietly resuming scratching out a passage from Thoreau while marking the addresses. I capture Kay with a stern look, before rolling my eyes and turning back to my paper to copy Mrs. Henshaw's notes. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Danny steal a quick kiss from Belle's lips, which she holds for a moment before twisting away flirtatiously, clearly fighting to tamp down a giggle. I wrestle back my own snort.

Oh, yes, I hate Reaping Day, but watching Danny and Belle thrash around like a pair of eels usually makes it better, provided I don't allow Kaydilyn's seditious thoughts to make it worse and thus restore a balance to my sour mood.

I make a final sweep of all my classmates - crowns of blond hair and pairs of ice-blue eyes on every one of them.

Except for one.

He is sitting in the corner at the far end of the room, the pulled-back curtain at the window creating a slashed cloak of shadow over his chiseled face. From the half of his face that is kept inside the light, I study the firm ridge of his jawline. The bangs of chestnut curls that fall into his eyes. Eyes as grey as ash. Seam eyes...

Haymitch Abernathy is the only Seam kid to have ever been admitted to the Upper School's advanced courses, which have, until this term, only ever been available to Merchant kids like myself. His father, the coal field's Miner Foreman and part-time tanner, petitioned the school board on behalf of his son, demanding that Haymitch be tested for the advanced subjects. The school board only, finally yielded when Markus Abernathy threatened to take his case to the Mayor, with whom he is a close friend.

Haymitch was allowed to sit for the exam. He tested in. The rumors are he's brilliant. _Brilliant_.

When the school board admitted a Seam kid into the advanced courses, the parents of every Merchant in Upper School let loose a vicious uproar of protest. A town hall was even held in the Justice Building, citizens of the Merchant sector demanding that the school board reverse its decision and send that "Seam brat back where he belongs." My father was one of those who objected to Haymitch's placement. Markus Abernathy was there, too, loudly bellowing that the school board honor their decision. "A District Twelve man's word is his bond!" he had shouted to the rafters.

Nearly a year later, I still don't know what made me do it. But I actually stood up and sided with Markus Abernathy (and thus going against my daddy), to say, "If Haymitch tested into the advanced courses, he should be permitted to take them." Kaydilyn thought I was crazy. Belle and Danny were more sympathetic, the latter especially - apparently, he and the Abernathy boy are actually friends.

All of this goes through my mind as I continue to hold Haymitch in my sights. Gaze into those Seam-gray eyes. I've never seen such eyes...

"Miss Donner: is there something particularly interesting about Mr. Abernathy that you wish to share with the class, or shall I have to remove the boy from your sightline hereafter?"

I blink, jolted from my stupor, as all of my friends erupt in giggles around me. I take one last glance at a glowering Haymitch, who has now noticed my staring, before stammering, "N...no, ma'am."

The piercing shrill of the bell mercifully rings and there is a flurry of activity as we Merchant kids dive for the door.

"Head straight home to change into your holiday best; the Reaping is in only three hours!" Mrs. Henshaw calls above the din and to our retreating backs. "And I expect that four-page essay on Keats by Monday! Final exams are, of course, the end of next week!"

Streaming out into the crowded hallways, a kaleidoscope of blonde hair and blue eyes assaults me. Any one of these faces could be Reaped in three hours time for the Hunger Games.

Though this year, it is known as a Quarter Quell.

For the past half a century, as punishment for rebelling against the Capitol, the twelve districts of Panem have been forced to offer up one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen as tribute to represent our homeland in the Hunger Games. The 24 selected tributes are then thrown into an outdoor arena to fight to the death until a lone Victor remains.

In the past 49 iterations, District 12 has only claimed Victory once, by the woman whose statue I am now shaded under out in the schoolyard - Lucy Gray Baird, a Seam girl who was known for a beautiful singing voice. She disappeared into the woods beyond the fence not long after, never to be seen or heard from again. Legend has it she is still living in those woods somewhere.

If she is still alive, I wonder why she hasn't bothered to help save other children like her in the forty years since she came home alive from the 10th Hunger Games.

There! My eyes settle on the moptop of brown hair bobbing like a buoy in the crowd beyond. A few people part enough for me to glimpse Haymitch Abernathy striding out of the schoolyard, an arm lazily slung over a stick-figure girl with equally olive skin, gray eyes and darker features. He is also hand-in-hand with a boy about three years younger: Lacklen Abernathy, his little brother.

"Come on, Maysie! Whatcha standing under here for?" Danny Mellark appears from nowhere to sling a friendly arm across my shoulders. Tucked in the crook of his other side is a blushing Belle. I smile at my two best friends weakly.

"Just getting out of the heat."

"Gotta brave the sun sometime," the baker's boy shrugs. "Let's head to your parents' shop! They're still open, right?"

I cock a ruffled eyebrow at him. "Yeah, but what about the bakery? Or the apothecary?"

"Reduced hours, remember? Ma and Dad will be locking up to get ready by the time I get back." Danny glances to Belle and she turns pink.

"Daddy always closes on Reaping Day."

I let out something between a chuckle and a sigh, shaking my head in amusement as Kaydilyn joins us at last, stomping and sporting a scowl. "Come on, then. You two loveingjays can take a downstairs table while we change." I jerk my head in my twin's direction.

"I'm telling you - wearing your Reaping clothes to Early Release is easier!" Danny chides as we traipse out of the schoolyard.

* * *

High noon strikes an hour later, and finds me manning the counter of my family's chocolatier and sweet shop. Behind me, Kaydilyn is supposed to be doing inventory, but she keeps pausing to chat with Danny and Belle, in between glances at the clock. Daddy always customarily closes up at half past noon on Reaping Day, giving him and Mother plenty of time to change before we have to go down to the Square.

"So," Danny chuckles. "Have either of the entrancing Donner girls stolen a Reaping Kiss?"

"I've already gotten mine!" Belle bubbles, before yanking her boyfriend into a deep kiss.

I make a show of rolling my eyes at them both again. The Reaping Kiss is one of the most famous superstitions in District 12. Supposedly, if two people who are age-eligible for the Games share a kiss on Reaping Day, they are both guaranteed not to be picked. I don't believe in such things, and have gotten through the last four Reapings just fine without one. Though I have no reason to believe that it doesn't work.

"I got a Reaping Kiss from Merle after third period!" Kay announces to the room at large. "Pushed him up against the lockers. He really enjoyed himself too, the prat!"

Danny hoots, swiveling his cobalt eyes to mine. "What about you, May?"

"She wants to give Haymitch Abernathy a Reaping Kiss!" Belle teases in a singsong voice.

" _Belle_!" Kay hisses, pupils wide and scandalized. "What a thing to suggest! Merchants kissing Seam on Reaping Day is bad luck!"

I duck my head to hide the pink blush staining my cheeks. "N-no, I don't," I quiver. "And no, I haven't, I've never needed one before..."

My voice trails off as I raise my eyes to see that Danny has now stretched himself across the counter, taking my face in his hands to pull me into a soft and sweet Reaping Kiss. My eyes pop wide with shock and I let out something between a whimper and squeak at his nerve. I feel my toes curl so that I am now balanced on the balls of my feet. After only a moment or two, Danny and I break apart noisily. I gape at him.

"Bastard," I whisper in disbelief at his temerity, even whilst my face blooms aflame. "And with your girlfriend watching! Dannel Mellark, you're a cad! I... I oughta slap you good!"

Danny just chortles and winks cheekily. "But you won't."

My gaze swivels to Belle, expecting her to be pursing her lips in that way she does when she's displeased. Instead, she's smirking, shaking her head at me. Danny, for his part, just shrugs.

"You should be safe as you can be now, Maysie, what with double the kids getting Reaped this year and all."

Belle dips her head into her lap, wiping at her eyes. "Wasn't the Reading of the Card this spring so awful? Twice as many tributes!"

"No worse than the First Quell," Danny shakes his head. "Grandaddy always used to say letting the districts choose their own tributes was torture. One of Ma's closest friends went that year. They voted her in because her mother slept with the Head Peacekeeper, and all the Seamers hated her."

"Didn't Cora Shutter kill her at the Cornucopia?" Kay asks.

"I think so? I'd have to ask Ma."

At that moment, my parents, Thomas and Lucille Donner, enter from upstairs, all decked out in their Reaping best.

"Afternoon, Dannel, Belle," my father nods to my friends. "Girls, flip the sign to CLOSED and wash your faces one more time. We'll have to leave soon!"

Danny stands and holds out his arm to Belle. "May I escort you back, miss?" She giggles and loops her arm through his. "Ya know, you're one of the purtiest gals I ever acquainted!"

I laugh at his Capitol accent and tosh a dishrag at the couple. "Oi! Get a room, you two!"

Danny's eyes are dancing with mirth. "See you lovely ladies in there!"

* * *

Ninety minutes after getting my first Reaping Kiss, I am standing with the other sixteen-year-old girls in the hot summer sun, my sister immediately to my left. Further down the row, about three others separate me from Belle Foley, who gives me a soft smile when we meet gazes.

As the clock strikes two, Mayor Undersee begins by reading the Treaty of Treason. Then he recites the names of past District 12 Victors: "The Victor of the 10th Hunger Games: Lucy Gray Baird!" We all bow our heads in reverence.

Then, a lady with tangerine-orange hair, green skin and nails as long as talons bounces up to take the microphone. Dolly Evana has been the District 12 escort ever since just before Kay and I were born.

"Welcome, welcome! The time has come to select _two_ young men and _two_ young women for the honor of representing District 12 in the 50th anniversary - the Second Quarter Quell - of the Hunger Games!" She lets out a little twitter at the joy of getting to select double the numbers this year, and an awkward pause hovers as if she expects us to join in the revelry. We don't.

Dolly clears her throat. "Ladies first!" Approaching the leftmost of two bowls, she plucks one slip of paper from amidst the thousands before unfurling it.

"Gilla Callan!"

Three groups ahead of us and across the aisle, the crowd shifts and rustles, roiling like one entity, one wounded animal. Finally, a wisp of a Seam girl of no more than thirteen tremblingly steps out of line and begins a slow death march to the stage. She is already weeping, eyes darting about and simpering, silently pleading for someone, anyone, to come forward and replace her. Her beseeching is little better than a howl into the wind, like the wail that now goes up from somewhere behind us. The girl's mother, no doubt - no one has ever volunteered for the Games from Twelve, nor would they ever, lest they wanted to look like a Career.

Dolly beckons Gilla up the last few steps, laying those taloned hands on her shoulders once the little thing is within reach and guiding her to her place on the stage.

"And one more girl! Isn't this exciting?" Dolly trills. No one answers, even if Dolly might still be half-expecting it. Peacekeepers would probably beat us even if we _did_ answer; the Reaping carries a strict no-talking policy.

Dolly whips out a second paper from the girls' bowl with a flourish. I see her unfurling it, her lips moving. And the world slams to a grinding halt as she chirps out:

"Maysilee Donner!"

* * *

**A/N: Here we go... I was inspired to write this because when I tried searching for a good AU in which Maysilee Donner wins the Hunger Games, I could only find one. The rather self-evidently titled _What if Maysilee Donner Won?_ is a 9-chapter, 16,000-word hot mess in which Maysilee ultimately marries Haymitch's younger brother, for some reason? I decided I could do better on a topic no one has tried to explore. This will be my sole fanfic focus for 2021. Since it is a New Year, I have decided to take a different approach. I will be publishing in installments - updates will be every three days, by hook or by crook. Please let me know what you think about this so far!**


	2. Show of Brute Force

**Chapter 2: Show of Brute Force**

I can remember exactly the last time a child with golden hair, a Merchant, was Reaped for the Hunger Games: it was five years ago, for the Reaping of the 45th Games. Rod Young was the 18-year-old son of the tailor in Town. He and his Seam district partner - a pre-teen coal miner's daughter - were cut down by the District 2 Careers within minutes of the Cornucopia bloodbath beginning. The male from 2 went all the way to the end before being cut down by the eventual Victor - the monstrous boy from 11 who lost a hand in the process. Before Rod, it had been more than a decade since a tribute originated from the fairest of District 12; in other words, well before Kaydilyn and I were born.

For it to be a rarity that a Merchant child is Reaped is not surprising. The honest trades of our parents provide us with full bellies and warm blankets on our beds, so we never have to take our tesserae. That's the system that most Seam kids buy into for an extra portion of oil and grain monthly, to feed their families. In return, more slips with their names on them go into the Reaping Bowls. Where a 16-year-old Merchant girl like myself would have only five slips amidst thousands, Seam kids the same age might have closer to 50 slips with their name.

But a Seam girl with 50 names in the bowl has not been selected this year. I have. Just pure, blind, bad luck.

As I come out of whatever daze I've been in, I feel dampness coating the bodice of my dress. Hear wailing and sniffling; Belle Foley has gotten out of line to embrace me tightly, while sobbing inconsolably into my shoulder. My arms feel like lead as they encircle her to hug her back; over her blonde curls, I see two Peacekeepers approaching our row to forcibly extract me if they have to.

"Belle," I whisper. "Let go." My best friend whimpers and clings tighter to me, until I have to literally pry myself away. The Peacekeepers are just shuffling into my row when I meet them. They step back, almost stumble, into the center aisle to let me pass. Slowly, I walk with my head held high towards the stage, towards Dolly's creepy grin and beckoning talons.

I feel not quite unlike how I would if I was coming up for air after holding my breath underwater. My hearing, which has been returning infinitesimally since Dolly Evana spoke my name aloud, comes roaring back the rest of the way. My Merchant neighbors are yelling, shifting restlessly behind the roped off partitions. Many Seamers are cheering and jeering. Rare though it might be to see a Merchant trust-fund brat get shipped off to their death, this year is ten times worse because it is a Quarter Quell. Only Seam kids went into the last Quell twenty-five years ago because we Merchants made damn sure to vote that way. I've heard the stories of how everyone in Town coordinated to make sure we all voted for two names and two names only; it would have done no good to have our vote split among a multitude of different Seamers, and risk accidentally sending in one of our own who might have carried a mere plurality of the vote. Frankly, I know some folks in Town who believe that the Games - Quell or no - are, or at least should be, only meant for the Seam scum. I've never had any such delusions. If you live in the districts, the Capitol's shadow extends over all, regardless of class.

I've only reached the edge of the 16-year-olds now - the largest age group in the district by far. My eyes pick out Kaydilyn from the crowd, who appears to be positively shaking with rage. Her mouth is hanging open, as if she wants to say something, and I shake my head: _Leave it_. Whatever she wants to blurt out - to volunteer, or worse yet, go off on a seditious tirade against the Capitol - won't do either of us any favors. Least of all me, once I'm in the arena. Luckily, my sister clamps her jaw shut, behooved all the more so by Merle Undersee, right next to her in line, laying a hand on her shoulder.

The 15-year-olds down to the 12-year-old sections blur by as I quicken my pace a little, and then I'm at the steps. My heeled boots catch on the hem of my dress, and I nearly trip (once again wishing that Mother had taken it up another inch or so). Lifting my skirts, I mount the stage like the cultured Merchant lady I am, and cross to stand by Gilla. The little girl has to tilt her neck all the way back to look up at me, her bottom lip quivering, and when she burrows into my side, I don't hesitate to put an arm around her.

"Wonderful!" Dolly finally bubbles. "And now for the boys!" She crosses to the bowl at her right and removes the first slip her fingers come in contact with. Just like for Gilla. Just like for me.

"Beech Berryhill!"

There is movement from the 17-year-old Seam boys' section, until a boy about as broad as my father emerges. Unlike my father, though, this boy isn't portly, though his chest muscles are quite pronounced. His face is soft. He has to be at least 6'5". The Peacekeepers flank him on either side every step of the way, fingers drifting near the triggers of their guns warily - tributes of physically stocky build are always treated with caution, in case they try to strike out at the guards before possibly making a run for it. But Beech mounts the stage without incident.

"One more tribute to go!" Dolly squeals.

This time, however, when she sticks her hand in the bowl, she sinks nearly all of her forearm into the mass of white slips, fingers weighing the bits of paper before letting most of them slip through like a sieve. Finally, she pinches one and whirls it out with a flourish.

"Haymitch Abernathy!"

My vision goes gray and spotty, and I feel myself swoon – it must be dangerously so, for I hear Gilla whimper in fear and nudge against my side to counteract my precarious balance, effectively restoring me to equilibrium.

It is my heart, however, that continues to seesaw in my chest as the incredibly handsome, eldest Abernathy boy joins us, his counterparts, on stage.

He doesn't fight back or scrimmage with the Peacekeepers like I imagined he might; I've heard the tales of Haymitch being an intimidating street brawler, picking fights, especially with the bigger kids. He is scowling, though, his thin lips scrunched up so tightly, it must be almost painful. When our eyes meet as he hits the first step, the frown creases further.

Upon arriving at the top of the stairs, Haymitch takes his place beside Beech stoically and silently, brooding; not once does my classmate acknowledge the other boy's presence. As for Gilla and me, we might as well be invisible.

"The tributes from District 12!" Dolly all but sings. She is met with only token applause. I feel something at the small of my back, manipulating me to face the boys. "Shake hands, you lot!"

Unlike a normal year, it takes some work and memory to ensure that everyone shakes hands with everyone else. My skill in math serves me well as I tabulate: without double counting, there are six handshakes in all. I feel a shock go up my skin when Haymitch and I clasp hands. His gesture is firm, and he squeezes my palm tight. I stare down at our enjoined fingers. He has such _massive_ hands... unconsciously, I feel my cheeks burn.

Next thing I know, our misfit quartet is being taken into custody. I think I hear a keening sob before the double, oaken doors slam behind us.

* * *

Beech, Haymitch, Gilla and I are separated almost immediately. Dolly stays glued to my side as she personally escorts me up the flight of an ornate staircase to the second level of the Justice Building. Through the crunch of white-plated uniforms, I catch a glimpse of Haymitch finally being unruly as the Peacekeepers presume they can handle him like a stubborn dog straining too tightly on its leash. Before the curve of the staircase causes him to disappear from my view, I watch the officers shove him into a room just off the District Clerk's office. That's where many young couples go to marry, signing a nuptial license before being assigned a house.

"Come along, dear." I feel Dolly's talons dig into the small of my back, urging me forward, even as I continue to crane my neck over my shoulder. Gilla has followed us up to the second floor, where she is being ushered into a conference room further down the hall.

I am finally steered into an expansive room. Across from me is a spread of floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a panoramic view of the Town's rooftops. Far below, the crowd is still an undulating jumble of people, most of them leaving the Square, though some disappear under the sill as they presumably rush for the doors. To extend their goodbyes to the tributes. To my left is a fireplace cut from the finest marble in Two, a steady fire already roaring in the hearth even though it is the height of summer.

These must be the familial quarters of the mayoral residence. I have no idea why they would allow such a lowly tribute like myself into a space this immaculate, but perhaps with double the numbers, the Peacekeepers dwindled in options for where they could individually hold us.

A pronounced slam and the click of a lock make me turn my head from where I am standing over the loveseat; I am alone. Exhaling a shuddering breath, I fan out my skirts as I take a seat on the plush upholstery, gazing forlornly at the buildings that encompass what is my home... well, what _was_ my home.

Where are my parents right now? No doubt they are hanging onto each other in tears over such misfortune and ruin being visited upon the family. Will they visit me? Are they clawing to get into the Justice Building even now? I dearly hope they would... but it might be too much for them to take. Mother's always had a weak heart; she might be unable to stand the strain.

There is a creak and then the jiggle of the lock, followed by the door opening. "You have fifteen minutes," the Peacekeeper on guard rumbles low before practically throwing a quartet of people inside. Belle Foley, Dannel Mellark, Merle Undersee and my sister all gape at me, each of their faces lingering in a daze.

The silence is finally broken by a wail as Belle pelts across the carpet and throws her arms around me. Kaydilyn is right on her heels, muscling in to wrap her limbs about my shoulders. I awkwardly rub Belle's back as she sags against me, turning my chin to rest it on my shorter sister's trembling curls.

"Belle..." I soothe. "Belle, don't..."

"It's not fair... It's not fair!" the apothecary's daughter blubbers.

"No, Belley, it's not fair." At my side, Kaydilyn's voice is dark and bitter. I lean back and affix her with another sharp look: _Save it_. Even now, I know cameras are watching. My sister obeys, though it seems to be more of a struggle than it was back in the Square.

Behind us, the boys step forward, heads bowed, their feet carrying them forward in that awkward shuffle only seen at funerals. If either of them had hats, they would be in their hands. When he finally raises his eyes to mine, Danny appears anguished. Wracked with guilt. Turning her head, Belle finally squirms out of my arms and flies into his, her weeping becoming louder.

"This is all my fault..." Danny mumbles, his voice barely able to carry over Belle's keening as he glances down at her. "If I..."

I smile at him tenderly, trying to be brave as I shake my head. "Danny..." I coo. "You have nothing to apologize for. I really couldn't have asked for a nicer first kiss."

His eyes snap back up to mine, his face slack in shock, and I can't help but laugh. "Besides... the Reaping Kiss is supposed to bring you good luck, not bad."

"No, the Reaping Kiss was supposed to keep you from being _picked_!" Kaydilyn fumes, flailing out her foot and kicking over a mahogany chair that must be centuries, if not millennia, old. "Those damn..."

"Kaydie..." Merle whimpers. " _Please_." I shoot him a grateful look. "You know, maybe Maysie is on to something. If she got a Reaping Kiss, good luck might be on her side yet! Maybe you could win! We certainly got handed a good crop!"

My twin greets this with a scoff. "She could. But so could that Beech. So could the Abernathy boy!"

In a strange way, Merle is right. The Reaping _did_ produce an unusually good crop this year. And with double the numbers, District 12 has more chances to win: Beech and his muscle. Haymitch's gall and true grit. And my... I'm not sure what my loved ones are seeing in me, but whatever it is, it must be something. No one brings up that poor little Gilla is practically as good as dead: no tribute under the age of 15 has ever won the Games.

I glance at the clock; my precious minutes with my friends are ticking steadily away. I clasp Kaydilyn's hand in mine. "Take care of Mama and Papa. Mind the store. And be sure to take care of my canary!"

Tears well up in her eyes, but she vigorously nods. I mumble out an "OK," before wrapping her in a hug. When she extracts herself, Merle quickly takes her place. Drawing back, I tenderly cup his cheek. "You're going to be an _amazing_ Mayor one day," I whisper.

Merle nods tightly, squeezing my hand. "Take care of yourself."

Turning to Belle and Danny, I beckon my best girlfriend forward, and she drifts over to me. Clasping her hands in mine, lifting them between us, I beam.

"You and Danny are going to have the most _incredible_ Toasting... and you, my dear, are going to look _fabulous_!"

Belle tamps down another sob. "You were supposed to be my Maid of Honor..."

I smile as cheerily as I can. "Well, maybe I still will be. But... if I can't... you and that handsome man back there have lots of beautiful babies!" I chuckle at Belle's potent blush and give her a wink, before warmly pecking her cheek. "Sisters?"

"Sisters," Belle grins weakly back. "Forever."

Danny is last of all. I hug him tightly. "Take care of her," I murmur.

"I will," he rumbles, stepping back. "You do your best, all right?"

He leans in to peck my cheek. Smirking, I grip his chin in my palm and press my lips firmly against his. Danny's face seems to freeze against mine, and I giggle against his soft mouth, savoring the taste for a moment before we break apart. I don't glance to see how Belle might have taken that, though I have a feeling she won't hold it against me.

I burst out laughing all the heartier at Danny's absolutely stunned expression. "I never did kiss you back this morning," I beam at him softly. "Now we're even." I playfully shove my hands against his chest. "Get going, you dope! I know you're already spoken for."

Danny finally smirks at me before turning away. The doors bang open and the Peacekeepers surround my friends, hustling them away.

"I love you, sissy!" is the last thing I hear, from Kaydie, before the doors slam shut again.

I wait in solitude for a moment or two, hoping that perhaps Mother and Papa might be ushered in next. I'd be surprised and deeply touched if any more visitors brave the doors for me beyond that - only a small helping of people ever come to say goodbye to the tributes, and usually not outside close friends and family. Most everyone correctly believes that our tributes are always good as dead; not even the looming presence of Lucy Gray Baird can dissuade them of that notion.

But my friends seem to think that District 12 might finally have a winner this year. With the exception of Gilla, it could be anyone's Games - including mine - between the other three of us.

After another minute, the Peacekeepers return, though unaccompanied. I try not to let my face fall in too much disappointment. Daddy probably had enough of a time trying to help Mother to bed. The squad of officers escort me back downstairs, where Dolly and the other three tributes are waiting for us. My eyes seem to always find Haymitch first, and I give him my friendliest smile. He doesn't smile back, appraising me up and down like I'm a creature of the Capitol before turning away in barely-concealed disgust.

Dolly happily leads the way out a side door of the Justice Building, where the five of us are all muscled into an armored car. Unfortunately, no one seemed to plan and provide us a vehicle with an extra backseat; being the smallest and the skinniest, Gilla and Haymitch have no choice but to squat up in a space against the back windshield. Beech and I take positions on either side of Dolly in the middle seat.

It's only a short ride to the district train station, and we all file out to paparazzi flashing their cameras and the cheers of a crowd. The people must be Capitol plants; the folks of the district wouldn't willingly participate in such a farcical display. Not when they know that all four of us are probably coming home in boxes.

We step off the platform and cross over into the sleek, silver locomotive. As soon as our quintet is aboard, the hydraulic doors hiss closed behind us, and the speed at which the train bullets off momentarily disorients us.

I don't even get a final peek of District 12 before it is gone, likely forever.

* * *

Dolly leads the way into the dining car, bouncing on the balls of her heeled feet and clapping her hands in an almost royal way.

"And here is our evening meal, brought fresh from the Capitol!"

My sister and I have never wanted for anything, have eaten heartily every day of our lives, and even my jaw drops.

An entire feast is spread out before us: lemon soup and lamb chops and raspberry pudding. There's even a chocolate fountain. Chancing a glance at my three Seam companions, their expressions make it clear that they seem to have been transported to another world.

"That turkey wing's mine!" Beech moves first, lunging nearly halfway across the table for the handsome bird displayed near the center.

Haymitch is right behind him, tackling the other boy in a flying leap. "Oh, no you don't!" he actually laughs - a rich sound, baritone, though not too deep.

Dolly takes in the scene of the two scrappy Seam teenagers wrestling on the meal with a look of abject horror. "No, no, no!" she shrieks, rushing forward to at least wave them off the tablecloth and into chairs. Biting my lip to hide a smile, I glance down at our littlest friend.

"Gilla?"

Closely observing the boys' roughhousing, her eyes dance as she smirks. "I call the fruit," before racing for a ripe plum at the top of the fruit bowl.

As we finally begin the dinner in a semi-organized fashion, Haymitch, Beech and Gilla continue to gobble and gulp whatever they can get their hands on. Dolly looks thoroughly unimpressed, but when she opens her mouth to clearly voice her disapproval, I quiet her with a look.

"Forget it," I say. "They've never eaten as well as this."

She manages to appear shocked by this, as if she hasn't been our escort for the past 15+ years, but then notices how I am at least eating with utensils and graces me with an almost grateful nod of appreciation. _At least_ _somebody_ _has manners_ , she clearly is thinking.

When the other three have slowed enough in their gorging, our escort dabs her napkin along her pursed lips. "Well, now that we have plenty in our bellies, I'd say it's high time to go over your Tribute Rights."

Haymitch stills long enough in slurping from his bowl of lemon soup to flash Dolly something between a smirk and a sneer. "Tributes have rights?"

Gilla snorts into her hands, and even I have to suppress a giggle. I don't entirely succeed, for Haymitch's head whips to me and after a moment of scrutiny grants me a subtle smile of what must be approval. I feel my heart patter in my ribcage.

Dolly frowns at Haymitch's flip response that could border on seditious, or at least cynical, depending on how you interpret it. Squirming a little in her seat, she begins to rotely recite:

"You have the right to remain silent: anything you say could and likely will be used against you in an arena of glory. You have the right to a mentor: if your district cannot produce a mentor, one will be provided for you."

"Provided?" Beech perks up at this. "By who? The Capitol?"

The four of us look at each other. Beech is certainly right about that. District 12 has only ever had one Victor who could possibly mentor... and unfortunately for us, she's been missing in action and presumed dead for four decades. Not for the first time, but never more fervently than now, I dearly wish that Lucy Gray Baird was still around - even if the Capitol does provide a district who has no mentor with one, I have to imagine that that Victor could not possibly care about those tributes as much as one of our own might.

Dolly nods enthusiastically. "Oh, yes, Beech! The Capitol has graciously assigned one of the Victors from District 2 to be your mentor this year!"

The four of us share yet another glance around the table. Well, at least our mentor is a former Career. District 2 has more Victors than anyone else - eleven so far. One more win, and they'll be the first district to fill up every single house in its Victors' Village, according to what I've heard on mandatory programming from time to time.

Just then, the door to the dining car hisses open and Dolly's eyes take on a positively star-struck look. "Why, here he is now!"

I shift around in my seat, and upon sight of him, my face turns pale: our mentor is none other than Brutus Barsetti, the positively _massive_ boy who won two years ago by butchering his way through almost two-thirds of the field single-handed. Apparently, he ended up tying the record for most kills by a single tribute.

Brutus's dark eyes make a quick sweep of what he's been left to work with, lingering on me for a moment in an almost leering way. I gulp, but try not to give away any vulnerability. Being a relatively new Victor, Brutus must have been placed in this thankless job to break him in. Help him learn the trade of mentoring.

It's hard to see anything other than his rippling pectorals, straining beneath a simple undershirt, but I nevertheless keep my eyes trained on his face. He has a shaved head, revealing a skull as thick as the rest of him. The image is a little jarring - no young man should be scarcely twenty and bald. Of course, then I remember watching the finale of his Games, and how Brutus had all his hair singed off by a blaze of fire. He battled his way through a volcanic arena, climbing up a steep slope of molten rock to duel his final opponent. The poor boy from District 5 was cast over Brutus's head and flung into the fiery pit of the active volcano, in order for the beloved Career tribute to become Victor.

After a long moment, Brutus's put-upon expression uplifts into a rueful smile. "Congratulations."

His clearly sarcastic remark is delivered in a rumbling bass that carries all the dulcet tones of a foghorn. Trapping me in his stare, Brutus makes right for me, reaching out a paw of a hand to caress my face. "And what's your name, my pretty?"

"Leave her alone." The almost growl actually comes from Haymitch even before I've twisted away, and my eyes dart over to his, surprised but nevertheless pleased that he would defend my honor.

Brutus's own orbs narrow into slits, his knuckles cracking as he balls them into fists. A muscle in his neck – as thick as a tree trunk - bulges, ticks. "You don't ever tell me what to do, tribute."

Haymitch just insolently smirks. "Listen, buddy, I hate to break it to you, but you ain't Pack Leader in the arena anymore."

The overhead lighting makes Brutus shimmer as his body vibrates with rage. "No, but you listen, smart-ass - I'm the mentor, and I give the orders. No one else!"

Haymitch is sporting a truly feral sneer. "Oh, yeah?"

And with that bravado that I know has gotten him into plenty of trouble and street free-for-alls before, the volatile Seam boy bullrushes a Hunger Games Victor at least twice his size, if not more. My fellow tribute's fists come out swinging, the ferocity of his attack actually driving Brutus back. Someone's leg bumps that of my chair, and I spring out of it just before it overturns with a crash.

There is a tinkling of glass as something shatters, and Dolly lets out a shriek of fear.

Brutus is now throwing out fists as large as salamis, one of which connects with Haymitch's right arm. The boy howls in pain, gritting his teeth before another press from Brutus sends him rolling away. Thankfully, Haymitch appears to lead with his left and he is soon back on the offensive.

Catching his eye from across the room, Beech sends me an almost imperceptible nod. With no prior discussion, we circle the pair of punching boys, trying our best to outflank Brutus. Once I'm close enough, I get a running start and take a flying leap for Brutus's back. Our mentor must anticipate me, for he side-steps so that I sail through empty air, landing hard on my stomach.

I feel a rush of air current above me, as Beech makes his move about half a second after I do. This time, he gets across Brutus's back, wraps an arm around his neck and holds fast like a monkey.

Brutus growls and thrashes, trying to dislodge Beech from across his shoulders, and Haymitch presses the advantage. He manages to drive the ex-Career back into the far wall of the train car, where Brutus takes the opportunity to ram Beech back into the wood - once, then again. Scrambling to my feet, I watch Beech take the hit and groan, but he admirably hangs on.

Glancing about wildly, I spy a cylindrical staff stuffed with jellybeans leaning against the chocolate fountain. Seizing it, I wait for an opening, and once it comes and Brutus is turned away...

I swing. Spying me bearing down out of the corner of his eye, Beech has just enough warning to duck. Our mentor isn't so lucky; the staff of jellybeans clocks Brutus right in the back of the head, and he actually moans, sinking to his knees. Beech tightens his hold; Brutus's face is quickly turning blue and Haymitch closes in, landing a punch on the side of Brutus's head.

"All right... ALL RIGHT! ENOUGH!" Brutus seizes just enough air around Beech's rippling forearm to bellow the command, and somehow also manages to regain his footing, eyes wild with rage. But his rush at Haymitch is halted when he nearly runs into the butter knife now pointed directly over his heart.

Even with our mentor still half-hunched over, Gilla has to reach to point the blade's tip directly over the critical organ. Though her weapon arm wobbles, her feet are firmly planted, and to her credit, she shows no fear.

We all freeze in a truly bizarre tableau, I with my jellybean staff still hefted over me. Behind us, we note Dolly dithering, terrified, in a corner.

Brutus's jaw sets, his teeth gnashing before he finally gets out tightly, "Time out." It is the closest equivalent to what I've heard Careers in the arena actually say: Yield.

Still, we do. Beech releases Brutus and clambers off him, allowing him to get air. Haymitch lowers his fists and I let my staff hang limply from my side. Gilla is the only one who doesn't move, but Brutus brushes her blade aside as though it is a twig.

"All of you, in front of me. Form a line."

We obey, Brutus going up and down the formation, inspecting his troops. He pauses in front of me, taking my chin in his hands, and for one mad moment, I think he is going to kiss me. If he does, he's no Dannel Mellark - though Danny took me by surprise, it was innocent enough and his heart was in the right place. Despite the flustered threat I leveled at my dear friend, I wouldn't have any qualms about slapping Brutus right across the face; I don't care how big he is.

But Brutus merely tilts my head this way and that, as though he is examining a piece of chattel before letting me go. His gaze roves over my body, and he grins, pleased. "I'll be able to get a lot of sponsors for a pretty little thing like you." My gut roils in revulsion. Our mentor patrols back down the line one more time, halting before Haymitch and leaning right into the boy's personal space in a clear attempt to intimidate. I have to admire my classmate: Haymitch stares him down right back.

Holding the detenté for a moment, Brutus finally steps back. "How interesting," he muses. "I get deployed to cannon fodder duty, and instead, I actually get three decent fighters."

Gilla's lip trembles, intelligent enough to guess who's the odd man out. I frown hard - Gilla was the one who actually had Brutus dead to rights, but the Victor of the 48th Hunger Games doesn't even spare his littlest pupil a second glance.

"OK. Here's the skinny: if you guys fight double as well as that in training, I might be persuaded to actually nudge sponsors in your direction. In return:" and his black orbs lock onto Haymitch, "none of you ever question my authority again. Deal?"

Gilla nods so fast, she looks like a bobblehead toy; the courage she displayed mere moments ago has clearly abandoned her. Beech shifts from foot to foot, but also bows his head in assent. When Brutus's gaze swivels to me, dipping down to take a peek at my cleavage, I merely nod, jaw hard.

Brutus returns his stare to Haymitch, who appears positively murderous. His one iris slides over to glance at me. ' _Haymitch... come on_ ,' I mouth to him.

The Abernathy boy finally shrugs flippantly. "Yeah, whatever."

Brutus takes it. "Excellent."

* * *

**A/N: With only two exceptions, most of the names of Maysilee's generation were lifted from the young Haymitch Abernathy prequels written by _FernWithy_ , a partial inspiration for this work. It took me a bit to decide on a young Brutus as the mentor, but once I did, writing him has been so much fun! Imagine a young John Kreese from _Karate Kid_ with his character. Thanks for the favorites and follows, and pistonsfan75 - thanks for first review. Keep 'em coming!**


	3. Between Pavement and Stars

**Chapter 3: Between Pavement and Stars**

We start off by watching the recaps of all the other Reapings.

In an ordinary year, standing in the Square besides Belle and Danny and my sister, it is difficult to keep track of all the two dozen tributes who are hauled up on stage. Most of the time, only a few really stick out in my mind. This year, with double the numbers, even fewer make an impression, as we observe name after name after name after name being called up.

The Careers from Brutus's usual crowd of Districts 1, 4 and his 2 homeland are all lean, hard muscle, even some of the girls. I have no idea how a young woman my age can have both nice breasts and full-on _abs_ , but the tall blonde from District 1 is nonetheless positively _jacked_. Of these three districts with their enormous advantage, she is the only one I remember. Next to me, Gilla has clearly noticed her too, shrinking into the plush velvet until she nearly disappears. I take note of the imposing chick's name: Opal.

"She'll be Pack Leader," I blurt out to the others.

"Huh? Who?" Brutus reaches for the remote to attempt and rewind…. and finds it gone. It only takes him a moment to discover the reason: Haymitch is passing the wandy stick from hand to hand, examining it the way a little boy might study a new toy. When he notices Brutus glowering, my classmate's smile only widens, and he waggles it tauntingly in the air.

Quick as lightning, Brutus snatches the remote back, so sharply that the back battery panel dislodges. Our mentor curses. "Don't… _touch_ ….. anything," he growls. He jams the panel back into its proper place, and doubles back from where the District 2 escort is just reaching to select the first girl. "Who did you predict would be Pack Leader, little darling?"

I reward Brutus with a glower of my own. "My name's not ' _little darling_.' It's Maysilee." To my surprise and immense satisfaction, Brutus actually blushes.

"Of course," he mumbles, and I note how my admonishment behooves him to open several manila folders at his plate.

I turn back to the screen. "There. That one. Opal. She's the one to watch."

Brutus follows my gaze, nodding in cool, clinical approval. "A solid bet. I'd match you with sesterces, if I was allowed to gamble." He dips his head in my direction. "Nice instincts." My face turns warm at the compliment. He may be….. well, a brute, but it would seem that it takes a lot to color Brutus impressed.

We resume the tape to District 2 as normal, where the boys alone possess about just as much girth as Brutus does now – two years their senior and on a Victor's diet.

I tune out the details of District 3's Reaping after digesting that their escort seems to have a habit of picking all twelve-year-olds to watch Brutus thumbing through the manila folders. Darting his tongue out to lick his forefinger, he flips over to the next page; I swear I catch a glimpse of my name.

"What are you reading?"

"Your files," the large Career answers without even glancing up from the page. "They were expressly delivered to me from your district school the moment you were taken into custody."

 _Taken into custody_. He makes it sound like we're prisoners. Though, in a way, we are. We have been offered up as tribute, for the Capitol to do with what it likes. Brutus bends over what I have guessed is the file on me, glancing up at me with an intensely serious look on his face. His bottom lip protrudes out when he thinks. "It says here you're a fraternal twin?"

A twinge of pain courses through me as I latch onto an image of Kaydilyn, conspiring with Merle Undersee in the back of Literature class. "My sister," I croak out.

Brutus's gaze shifts once over to Gilla, still balled up in her chair. "Wish she was here in place of the shrimp," he mumbles unusually loudly. "I'd make a killing on sponsorships." This obviously must have something to do with the fact that my mentor is clearly attracted to me, and I refrain from showing any disgust on my face. So too do I refrain from yelling at him for demeaning Gilla, as much as I might want to defend the little girl. Brutus might be acting like some kind of morbid pimp trotting us out to whatever highest bidder will take a chance on us, but something tells me that's not entirely his fault. I'm a rudimentary enough card player (despite Daddy's disapproval that playing cards is unladylike) to know Brutus has been dealt a hand, and as our mentor, he has to play the cards he's been dealt. Any angle he can work that might be of some benefit to us - in other words, to saving our lives - he will use.

Take Gilla, for instance. The best Brutus might be able to pull off for her is playing up the cuteness factor. Unfortunately, since Brutus's heart clearly isn't into glorified babysitting, I'm pretty sure the Capitol audience won't be invested either. I might not be willing to admit what Brutus is clearly willing to say out loud, but the fact still remains: the little Seam pre-teen is pretty much doomed.

As for me, I don't how or why Brutus thinks the looming but still invisible presence of Kaydilyn could actually help me. She's herself. I'm me. "What does my sister have to do with anything?"

"A compelling life story," Brutus quips, turning another page. "A reason for you to come home. And also pure biology: two pretty girls are always better than one pretty girl. And it might give the crowd a thirst to see a sibling go in the next year, especially if she turns out to be the sibling of a Victor."

Bile surges in my throat. Suddenly, the duck au l'orange on my plate doesn't look very delicious.

With the specter of my twin sister being offered as tribute in next year's Games effectively killing my appetite, I turn back to the recaps in time to see we are transitioning from District 4 to 5. One of the boys selected from their 18-year-olds pool, though skinny as a drowned rat, has a disconcerting smile that appears sly and mysterious. His male and two female counterparts are otherwise largely forgettable. Noting the two men – their only Victors – seated behind their new charges (one of whom appears not much older than Brutus), I have a feeling the sly boy will be the only real contender to come out of at least District 5. I don't voice this finding though; Brutus might admonish me by saying something like I'm not analyzing all of the tributes deeply enough. That appearances can be deceiving – the other three District 5 tributes could be just as dangerous as the one boy I picked out.

I chance a glance once again at Gilla. This little Seam pixie might yet have something in her that I'm not paying attention to, though should – after all, she got the drop on Brutus probably the best out of all four of us within our little brawl.

Brutus might be thinking along a similar wavelength, or at the very least, must have reached Gilla's file, for he now turns to her and speaks the most words to her since he arrived in the train car. "What about you, squirt? Is there anything special about you at all?"

Gilla gulps. "That older girl from District 7 is good with throwing axes," she whispers.

We all snap our heads back to the screen, where the second girl from Seven is being summoned up to the stage.

"I didn't ask what's special about _her_ – I asked what's special about _you_. And anyway, how could you possibly know that?" our mentor scoffs.

"Look at her forearms," Gilla nods to the image. "She has pronounced biceps. Which tells you that she has been carrying and likely chucking short, ranged weapons."

"In other words: Gilla here is very observant," Beech smiles down at her. "You should pay attention, too," he nods to Brutus.

A beat as Brutus absorbs this. Finally, he turns back to his paperwork, grumbling. I smile at Gilla and give her a thumbs-up. She weakly smiles back at the praise.

Meanwhile, Brutus has moved on to the next file. On one page, he freezes, flips back as if to do a double take, then lifts his eyes up to Haymitch. At last, our mentor clears his throat. "What about you, genius? Any aces up your sleeve?"

Haymitch smirks. "Why? You feeling inadequate somewhere, bright eyes?" His gaze shifts downwards to somewhere under the table, and we all tense. I squirm with discomfort. How I wish my fellow tribute wouldn't antagonize the guy who's supposed to keep us alive!

For Brutus's part, it is taking all of his self-control to not lunge across the table and bash Haymitch's face through the train window. "I'm asking in the interest of full disclosure," the former Career at last gets out through gritted teeth. "Like, say, an estimated IQ score of 155?"

My jaw drops and even Beech looks impressed, swiveling all the way around in his seat to stare at Haymitch. Haymitch himself, meanwhile, maintains an admirable poker face throughout, despite my disbelief.

I knew it. I knew he was a goddamn genius.

"What the hell are they teaching you in a Twelve school?" Brutus inquires, sounding a little dazed himself.

I fold my arms across the table, turning to face Brutus. "Advanced courses. Haymitch is the only Seam kid who's ever tested into that curriculum. It's usually only for Merchant kids."

Brutus blinks. "And that's good, right? I mean, am I supposed to what Seam is? Merchant?"

"Class lines," I murmur. "The Seam kids are the poorer folk of the district. Not a lot of opportunity. But Haymitch tested into our advanced courses anyway."

Now, it's Haymitch's turn to gawp in abject disbelief. I feel him clutch my arm, turning me to face him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demands.

I stare back at him evenly. "What are _you_ doing? If he's going to help you live, he needs to know your strengths – preferably from you, and not from other people. Don't sell yourself short."

Haymitch releases my arm, leaning back a little to ponder me with a stare of wary mistrust. I hold his gaze, the tension boiling over. The heat of his gaze – however hostile it might be, though this is slowly dwindling by degrees – makes me feel flushed all over. In the span of this moment that seems to last forever, the Reapings of Districts 10 and 11 flash by completely unnoticed.

It is Beech who breaks the tableau, when he swivels his head back to the screen to take in the four of us being broadcast live to all of Panem. Perhaps remembering that he is the only one who has not gone through an individual, initial evaluation, he blurts out into the silence, "I'm the runner-up on the wrestling team in school!"

Yes, he is, I find myself concurring silently. And the only reason he's not the champion of his weight class is that Danny Mellark could pin him in his sleep.

"And….. good for you," Brutus dismisses, lifting the remote to switch the television off. He sounds thoroughly unimpressed as he stands. "We'll be arriving in the Capitol first thing in the morning. I suggest you all get some sleep. We'll have no time to rest until after the parade tomorrow evening." With those words, he clearly dismisses us, and we all break for bedtime.

When Dolly pipes up, I jump; I'd almost completely forgotten our escort was here. "Your sleeping quarters are down the next car. Boys, you'll have your names printed on doors at your left; girls, the same on your right."

Beech takes little Gilla by the hand and exits for the hallway of the car beyond first. Haymitch prowls behind, hands stuffed in his pockets. I quicken my pace to catch up with him.

"Hey!"

He turns, eyes narrowing at me. I feel like curling into myself, though I will myself to hold his gaze. "Thanks," I mumble. "For sticking up for me. For….. not allowing Brutus to touch me."

He grunts. "You didn't think I wouldn't?" His tone sounds almost accusatory.

"No….. No!" I almost yelp, trying to give him my best, most appreciative smile. "It's…. it's nice to know chivalry isn't dead."

Haymitch snorts through his nose. "I'd prefer to call it experience." He scuffs at the ground. "People say I have my mother's looks and my daddy's mouth. You don't think the Peacekeepers also didn't think my mother was a hot piece of skirt that they could have any old time they wanted?"

I feel all the color drain from my face in sympathy. The Peacekeepers in Twelve – some of them, anyway – have been known to take pleasure wherever they can find it, from Merchant and Seam women alike. Mother always drilled into Kaydilyn and me the importance of consent, despite the fact that it would likely be more expedient to just not resist and let the officers do what they like with us.

Haymitch's ash-grey eyes are boring into mine. "My daddy always said: a District 12 man who can't protect his woman isn't much of a man at all."

I take note of the past tense, my expression collapsing with sadness. That's right. Word tore through the school of Markus Abernathy's death about six months ago. Supposedly, it had been a brutal winter, for the Seam folk. "I'm sorry," I whisper, my voice quite small.

He looks askance. "Not your fault," he mumbles. He bristles suddenly, as if trying to dislodge a fly. "Though I do expect an apology for you ratting my test scores out to that ape!"

I gawp at him, letting out a little offended laugh. "Are you kidding me? One of the only reasons you _have_ those test scores out of those advanced courses is because of _me_! At the town hall meeting, I stood up for you! You have a funny way of showing gratitude."

Haymitch blinks owlishly at me, seeming to make the connection of who I am with what I have done for him. Perhaps he didn't remember. But that doesn't excuse him being so rude!

"And back there, with the staff of jellybeans? That was called saving your life!" I abruptly spit out. Really, it's not fair that I am keeping score, but what he accused me of….. he has no right! I was trying to _help_ him! And even though it should go against every instinct I have to want to preserve my own life – we are going into a literal _fight to the death_ – I feel that I can't help but prop him up, even when he seems to have no desire to help himself, at least when put under the spotlight. That's not the ballsy Haymitch I know.

"You're right." Haymitch says it so softly, I fear I might have misheard, or imagined it entirely. When I snap my eyes back to his, blinking, he dips his head in acknowledgement once. "You're right." And he grants me a tiny bow. "Good night, Princess."

My throat all at once feels dry. "My name is Maysilee." I sound practically breathless.

He cracks the smallest of smirks. "Yeah. Sure. Good night." And turning, he opens the door to the quarters marked for him and disappears inside. I find myself staring at the varnished wood for many minutes afterwards.

"Good…. Good night."

* * *

A pounding fist rouses me from a restless sleep the next morning.

"Get up." Brutus's order through the wood of my door is abrupt, efficient and to the point. Indeed, there is something very militaristic about it. As I rise from the down comforters and feather pillows, I find myself wondering if he has ever heard of Taps – the bugler back home is renowned for being able to awaken all the officers in the Peacekeeper barracks, as well as close to all of Town.

I drag myself to the shower in the bathroom, and right away am flummoxed by the sheer number of buttons and knobs spread out in an array before me…

…. and, as I tragically soon discover, in no discernable order.

No one in the Capitol figured that a legend or a key might be required for district tributes to help us navigate taking a bath, so the next ten minutes are spent going through a comical process of trial and error. The first button I press, pink suds are jetted out from holes that open in the wall panels. I squeak, nearly choking on the stuff. With the pink suds getting in my eyes, I have to grope blindly for the next button, and my squeak pitches into a full-on scream: blasts of water, alternating jarringly between searing hot and ice-cold, assault my skin. Having always had a preference for warm water back in Twelve, I have to concentrate on dodging the freezing sprays, while then getting under the boiling ones to scrub and rinse simultaneously until the heat becomes too much for even me to bear.

Judging myself to be decently clean, I emerge from the shower and head for the armoire. Most of my wardrobe is Capitol fashions: too loud and ostentatious for my sensibilities. But I finally find a burgundy tunic and dark workout pants that are utilitarian enough, suiting my purposes nicely.

Turning back to my crumpled up Reaping dress in a corner chair, I remember to retrieve the little golden pendant fastened over the bodice. Studying the mockingjay emblazoned in 14-karats, I trace my thumb over the raised image. The pin was a present from Kaydilyn for our birthday this past spring. She had been the one to pin the pendant on my dress as we got ready for the Reaping…. only yesterday morning. Already, it feels much longer ago. But as I stare down at it, turn it over in my hand, I am profoundly grateful that my sister had the presence of mind to give this to me. Every tribute is permitted a district token to carry into the arena with them. Something from home. Opening the clasp and threading the point through my burgundy tunic, I resolve that this pin will be mine.

THWAP, THWAP! "Maysilee….!"

"Coming!" I call to Brutus, lunging for the door and opening it. My mentor blinks rather rapidly upon seeing me.

"At least _one_ of you is prompt," he mutters dryly. "Come on; we're pulling into the station….."

Brutus corrals us all before the hydraulic doors of the sleeping car. Through the stainless steel, I can hear a deafening roar of Capitolites clamoring to meet us, the tributes.

"When these doors open, I want you all to project yourselves as tough, intimidating. Show them that you can bring pride and honor to your district." He eyes each of us in turn, pausing for a moment when he gets to Gilla. "On second thought, you….. just be yourself. You're about as intimidating as a Chihuahua; the audience will know it's fake."

I come closer than I ever have to calling Brutus out on his behavior regarding our littlest comrade, but once again hold back, feeling it could be counterproductive. Brutus may have already given up on her, but….. "You could be a little more encouraging," I hiss to the broad young man who is supposed to be our teacher. That is the most that I allow myself to say about it, even as I steal an arm around Gilla's trembling shoulders. "You're going to do great."

The hydraulic doors hiss open, and the sunlight itself seems to blink as paparazzi cameras are thrust nearly directly into our faces. I attempt to put on my best game face, carrying myself as impervious. On the opposite side of Brutus, Haymitch's expression is as chilled as stone. Beyond him, Beech quickly loses control of whatever apathetic façade he has attempted as he gets drunker and drunker on the Capitolites' frantic screaming for him. Before long, he appears boyish, and I want to groan. 6'5" or not, the Careers will turn him into mincemeat. Gilla is also taking the happy route, beaming and waving for the wild throng.

Brutus maneuvers us through the crowd now pressing tighter and tighter in, manipulating the mob to carry us like a cresting wave through the Capitol train station, beyond which now waits a stretch limousine. Gilla lets out an ecstatic gasp, and leads the way into the back when a white-gloved attendant holds open the door for us. I have to duck my head low to follow; the boys more or less tumble in after us. Brutus forks over a wad of what must be sesterces – Capitol currency – and away we fly deeper and deeper into the metropolis. Within minutes, it seems we have arrived at the Remake Center, just off the City Center proper.

As the mentor, Brutus is the first to emerge. Haymitch quickly follows him, turning back and holding out his hand to me.

I freeze for a moment, taken aback by his gallantry, and blush. "Thanks," I smile, and graciously allow him to help me out of the car. Even over the bustle and noise, I can hear Beech and Gilla gabbing excitedly behind us, stopping every few feet to point something out to each other.

"Get a move on, you lot! Your stylists haven't got all day!" Brutus growls, waving us through to the lobby, where I can see that several of the other district delegations have already arrived. My stare stills for a prolonged moment on a quartet of muscled warriors. Part of the Careers, though from which District, I can't tell. This, however, is cleared up in the next moment as Brutus approaches a man who must be in his upper 20s.

"Ares!"

"Brutus!" The two men embrace.

Oh, he must be Ares Valerio, who triumphed in the first Games I ever remember watching. It is a vague memory, to be sure; Kaydilyn and I were still little, had just started Lower School. If I can recall correctly, at least from the lectures we had on it in Hunger Games History class, the 41st Hunger Games was set on a series of cliffs, dotted by waterfalls. Ares Valerio, the boy from 2 that year and Pack Leader, had spent quite a bit of intimate time with his ally, the girl from 4….. whom he eventually had to cast over the edge of one of the waterfalls and watch her plummet to her death. I think back to Brutus's similar final moves to Victory, and wonder if Ares was his mentor.

As I find myself drifting closer, I can hear the two men talking in low tones. I try to ignore how both of Ares's male charges are eyeing me like I'm a scrumptious snack.

"So, Ahenobarbus relegated you to cannon fodder duty, huh? Man, that's rough…. You'd think they'd at least assign a Capitol trainer to do it! Even Six has a Victor to mentor – hell, two of them now!" Ares glances briefly to me, gesturing. "How can you expect these backwater hicks to make the grade?"

Behind me, I can practically feel Haymitch's scowl. Brutus, however, just chortles.

"Oh, I don't know, Ares…. I think you'll find this crop from Twelve is fairly decent. Even…. full of surprises." He shifts his eyes to me with a smirk. Without a doubt, that is probably the nicest thing he has ever said about any of us.

All at once, there is an almost wailing squeal of "Brutus Barsetti!"

Brutus looks appropriately confused by a woman who he clearly doesn't know, her face tattooed to resemble a bat, sweeping forward to kiss him on both cheeks. "Such an _honor_ it is…."

"Oh. Hello…." The ex-Career clears his throat. "You must be Baronness Antonia!" He turns to us ladies. "Sorry, Maysilee, Shrimp, but apparently the State didn't have the budget to outfit you each with your own prep team, so you'll have to share with the usual one. Your Head Stylist, Baronness Antonia, and hair and make-up, Quillia and Bette." Two more ladies curtsey before us, giggling and heatedly whispering amongst themselves and pointing at Gilla and me, no doubt already mocking up designs in their heads.

Antonia nearly floats over to me, taking a strand of my long blonde hair and twirling it between her fingers. "Oh, my dear…. such natural beauty….. are you really District 12 born? Why, when I'm through with you, Aphrodite herself will be jealous!"

I have no idea who that person is, but I decide to take it as a compliment all the same.

With a clap of her hands, Antonia whisks Gilla and I away, our head stylist prattling a mile a minute. I am allowed just one glance over my shoulder to where Brutus is introducing Haymitch and Beech to their prep team before Gilla and I are shoved into salon chairs.

Without any warning or decorum, we girls are stripped down to absolutely nothing and attacked with tweezers.

Gilla and I are plucked and preened like the District 12 poultry man's best chickens. Ever single hair must go, Antonia insists, and I let out a yelp of mortification as Bette proceeds to shave all the blonde hair off from the apex of my thighs.

Before I can recover from the indignity, our salon chairs are tipped back and we are unceremoniously dumped into individual tubs filled to the brim with those pink suds that assaulted me in the shower on the train. It is with these and a scratchy brush that I am scrubbed until my skin is pink, mottled and raw. For the finishing touch, we are exfoliated in such a manner that our skin is effectively smoothed back over again.

Quillia shoves me in front of a mirror while she applies grey lipstick and black eyeliner to my lips and lashes. When she finally steps back with a cry of joy, I stare.

An angel has deigned to visit me. Take possession of my body…. which, tragically, is still maddeningly naked. I pinch my legs together and my palms fly to my breasts, as I attempt to cover what little modesty remains.

"Where our are costumes?" Gilla chirps out, also attempting to shield herself. From what I can make out, her body is just beginning to develop in the early throes of puberty. I decide I frankly have the better deal between the two of us.

" _Costumes_?!" Antonia shrieks. "My dear, you wound me! Cloth and fabric obfuscates a district woman's true beauty! No, no, my lovelies, you will be presented for the city's pleasure in all the beauty you were born in!"

And with that declarative statement, two buckets of a black, powdery substance are dumped on our heads, coating Gilla and I from head to foot.

I cough and wheeze, blinking the dust out of my eyes as fast as possible. Quillia dives back in to touch up my mascara and as the smoke clears, the mirror gives me a good look.

Coal dust. We are covered completely in coal dust. Soot. For an extra flourish, Gilla and I are handed what I guess are their interpretation of miner's helmets. I have no idea what books Antonia probably hasn't read, but these clunky hats look nothing like the helmets I've seen coming up towards the Hob on the edge of Town, when I go out for evening walks after supper.

Antonia actually appears teary as she takes us in. "Ohhh… my little starlets! You are sensational! Come, come! We must join you with your handsome men at the chariots!"

An image of Haymitch wafts into my brain, and I can't fight back a smile. In the next moment, though, I blanche… Oh, gods… he's going to see me…

Before I can think to do anything like actually attempt to make a run for it, Gilla and I have been loaded into a small cart to take us just down the street to the stablehouse just off City Center. There, we will mount our chariots and be paraded down the Avenue of Tributes.

The District 12 chariot is, of course, at the back of the line. It's actually only small relief to see Haymitch and Beech, who are stumbling around with deers-in-headlights expressions on their mortified faces, their bodies just as bare as ours. I…. ohhhhhhh… Even as Haymitch tries to hide it, I catch a flash of…. I thank whatever might be above that the coal dust powder conceals the pink in my cheeks.

"ANTONIA!..." The voice of our mentor is a bellow from clear across the stablehouse, so ear-splitting that the background conversations of most of the other tributes cease. Once half the Careers glance in our direction, the sound swells back, this time in laughter and giggles. I flush even further red as the girls from the District 9 contingent laugh and point.

A vein is throbbing in Brutus's neck as he stalks up to us, making right for my and Gilla's Head Stylist. "What have you done? What _is_ this?!"

"My magnum opus," Antonia sniffs. "Aren't they just…. darling? It is…. bold! Evocative!"

"It's also been this district's look for the past _twenty years_!" Brutus shrieks, barely granting himself enough time for an eye-roll as he rages and fumes. "Bold and evocative, my ass! She looks like a chimneysweep and a whore had a baby!" He gestures contemptuously at Gilla. But apparently, I'm the greatest subject of my mentor's displeasure, as he grabs my chin and thrusts it forward toward Antonia for emphasis. "Look at Maysilee! She's _ruined_! How am I supposed to sell my most attractive tribute when she looks like she took a wrong turn on her way from the boiler room?!"

"I mean, I'd lose the coal dust routine, but I think she looks lovely…." Haymitch's voice is amazingly soft, and the tender tone of it makes me snap my gaze to his in surprise. If I had blinked, I would have missed his eyes perform a quick sweep of my body, exposed for him and all to see. The appraisal makes me shiver in delight, and I suddenly don't feel as self-conscious standing in public in the nude.

Coming back to myself, I clue into Brutus still screaming himself hoarse. "This is the laziest concept I've _ever_ seen from a stylist in the sixteen years I've been participating in the Games in various capacities! Fix it – NOW!"

Antonia looks affronted. "Ungrateful district brute!" she stamps her foot. "Start over with the parade only five minutes away?! I am not a miracle worker!"

Brutus's jaw clamps up, his teeth setting as he stews. "Fine!" he snaps, before jabbing a finger in her face. "But I am going to track down Glanius Crane, the Head Gamemaker, and we are going to have words. I'm registering a formal complaint! Who's your brand line?"

Antonia reluctantly gives him the name of her employer – apparently one of "the finest boutiques in the Capitol!" – as trumpets blare in the distance. Distracted, Brutus snaps his fingers at Beech and points. The silent message is clear: _round them up and get in_! Beech has enough good sense to obey – I have a feeling if Brutus had given an order like that to Haymitch, my classmate would have stubbornly refused it out of sheer spite.

The chariot is inlaid with gold, and pulled by a team of two white stallions. With the unusual parameter of the Quarter Quell, each basket has been upholstered with two rows. Beech lifts little Gilla into the front row with the ease of one plucking a stick from the ground or a slip of paper from the Reaping Bowl and deposits her in.

Rounding to the back, Haymitch gentlemanly holds out his hand to me to help me in. Beaming at him, I take it and even give it a little squeeze. He bristles a little, harrumphing, though unlike before on the train, it seems to lack any bite.

I register Haymitch clambering in beside me, only to frown as he tries to peer around the mass that is Beech in the row directly ahead of him.

"Hey! Down in front!"

"I _am_ down." Beech side-eyes his district partner from over his shoulder.

"Bitch, you are not!" I cringe at the foul language, even as I tell myself it must be a thrash-talking guy thing. Too late, it seems to dawn on Haymitch that there are ladies present, and he shoots me an almost sheepish, apologetic grin.

Beech heaves out a dramatic sigh. "Look: _this_ is standing, and _this_ is squatting. I'm squatting." He adjusts his body to demonstrate each state. I can't help but giggle because, frankly, I can't detect much of a difference. Beech (and Brutus, for that matter) better hope that this procession doesn't blow out his knees.

Two places ahead of us, the District 10 chariot is starting to pick up speed, signaling the Districts 11 and 12 chariots to creak forward. Our chariot sways, and I whimper a little, teetering dangerously with the motion so that I reflexively grab for the first thing to hold onto.

That happens to be Haymitch's hand, resting idly on the rim of the chariot.

He stills in shock, and I do too, our eyes lifting to meet each other's. My district partner must see something vulnerable, truly pleading, in my gaze, for his own expression drifts into the softest I have ever seen from him. Without another word, he laces his fingers through mine. I smile weakly in thanks, and suddenly feel grateful that it is him, and not Beech, by my side.

As our vessel emerges onto the Avenue of Tributes, an earth-quaking roar blasts our eardrums. A chilly night wind gusts up in my face with the blasting force of a hairdryer and I blink as I take in my surroundings.

A cacophony of color and sound, embodied by people masquerading like something out of the fairytale books that Mama would read to Kaydilyn and I, envelops us. The herd shrieks and calls out to us, some of them even running to catch up with our chariot after it passes by. Still others try to muscle their way past the Peacekeepers, who seem to be at the peak of their training in attempting to hold them back.

The cries of delight grow all the shriller when people realize that we are standing in all our natural beauty.

"Haymitch…. AHHHHHHH!" A gaggle of pre-teen girls squeals at a pitch so high, only dogs could hear it.

"Maysilee, I love you! Marry me!" I think I hear one man bellow over the din.

I catch sight of a young mother full-bore weeping as she reaches for the little one in the chariot row ahead of me. "Gilla… win for me, darling!"

"Beech! BEECH! BEECH!" Still another entire section starts up a chant, stamping its feet.

Gilla is radiant, blowing kisses to everyone in sight; in response, people are diving and pushing each other violently out of the way, as if these kisses really can be caught. Beech looks pleasantly surprised and delighted by the rhythmic chant of his name. When he pumps a fist in the air, the audience goes berserk.

Even my own grin is so wide, it's nearly splitting my face. Eyes shining, I falter when I turn to look at Haymitch, who seems icily unmoved by the clear adoration being thrown at us, none more than at him.

"Are you all right?" I ask, my smile wavering just a bit as I squeeze his hand.

He jerks with a start. "What?"

I laugh musically. "ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?" I holler, nearly in his ear.

He leans away from me, his face so comically pained that I giggle again. After a moment, he shrugs.

"Just don't know what to make of it!" he barks over the chaos. "Is this for real?"

I shift my eyes to look at our entwined hands, my smile full and gentle. "Yeah, it is." I don't think he hears me, but he's still studying me all the same. I chuckle. "Relax," I mouth at him. "Stop worrying."

His face scrunches up in confusion, and I just shake my head, leaving it be.

We finally enter the City Circle proper, our chariot swaying to a halt as we all look up to the podium emblazoned with the presidential seal. President Snow takes the stage and welcomes us with a brief speech. Then, we are dismissed to exit our chariots and find our mentors and escorts.

At a head taller than the rest of the field, Beech is spotted easily by Brutus, who waves us down. Dolly Evana rushes forward to embrace me, and I feel my stomach clench guiltily that I've almost forgotten her presence. Over her shoulder, I can see Brutus talking into a small device held up to his ear. It must be some kind of phone, only this one he can hold in his hands. Only Merchant families like mine can afford a telephone, and those are landlines, connected to a switchboard provided by the government. Just as he appears to hang up with one, he flips the portable phone open again and another caller takes its place. He doesn't seem to know what to do with this kind of attention. I barely know myself.

Dolly is trying to drag Haymitch into conversation when the ex-Career stomps up, looking haggard. Our escort appears delighted by his exhaustion. "Sponsors?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," Brutus growls dryly; from the look on his face, he appears to be a little in shock. "But half of them seem to only want to do more than just send Maysilee a parachute….." he pinches his face with disgust. "Another third are old biddies wanting to throw money at the shrimp, and the rest are actually intrigued by your ugly mugs even though _you_ only just stood there like a deaf-mute!" He gestures at the boys, though most of his ire is directed at Haymitch.

My classmate just shrugs flippantly, a smug smile frolicking on his face. "Cool."

Brutus gawks at him for a moment, then turns away with a scoff, leading the way to the elevators of the Training Center. As District 12, we get the top floor – the penthouse suite. Dolly prattles on to us about its features the whole ride up. When we finally step into our home-away-from-home with a DING, Brutus dismisses us to bed.

"Set your alarms to 8:30. There's some stuff I want to go over with you all at breakfast. Training starts at 10 – sharp."

I am at my door when I hear a voice murmur, "Good night, Maysilee."

I cast a glance over my shoulder to find Haymitch scuffing at the ground, and beam.

"Night, Mitchy," I try out the pet name. His head snaps up in surprise, but before he can form an answer (or perhaps an objection), I close the door behind me.

* * *

**A/N: District5Chemist - Thank you. That means a lot. More district division to come in later chapters. Katarinakat - Interesting how you don't like Danny. Stay tuned...**


	4. Get on the Board - Training

**Chapter 4: Get on the Board – Training**

I pause in lifting a spoonful of cereal to my lips to glance over at Gilla, still nodding nearly into her bowl next to me. The sun is already rising fast in the sky; we have to report down to the basement of the Training Center in a little under an hour and a half for our first day of boot camp.

"…. one of you wake her up?" I blink, shaking the drowsiness from my own eyes. I don't know why my sleep patterns are so off – Kaydilyn and I always got up early to get to school; we'd be in homeroom by this hour. And on the weekends, our rousing time was even earlier, to man the sweet shop. Maybe it's the rush of being in the Capitol, but ever since the train, I've been sleeping better than I have in a long time.

All of this wonderful beauty rest despite the fact, I remind myself, that I could be in an eternal sleep within a matter of days.

When none of us respond to Brutus's command, our mentor takes it upon himself to reach across the table and sharply clap his hands, directly in poor Gilla's face. The little girl yelps, jerking awake.

"There we go! Come on, wake up, sunshine!" Brutus eases back into his seat. "Now, a couple of things before Dolly Parton here…."

"Dolly _Evana_ ," our Capitol representative corrects him.

"Whatever. Before Dolly _Evana_ ," Brutus mockingly imitates Dolly's accent on her last name. "…. takes you down for training. I want all of you to branch out – even if you're an anti-social twat and don't want to meet people…." He bestows what he must think is a meaningful stare over at Haymitch, who scowls. "…. at least get a read on them. Study who _they're_ sidling up to. Observe what weapons they are using. _However_ :" and he slaps the table to grab our full attention. "Just because some District 7 lumberjack with his hand down his pants is giving you a free show of what he can do with an axe, doesn't mean you should showcase what weapons _you're_ good at. In fact, do _not_ , under any circumstances, show off what you're naturally skilled at until your private sessions with the Gamemakers. Use your training time productively to acquire new skills. Absorb anything you can like a sponge."

Beech raises his hand, to which Brutus rolls his eyes.

"What is this, kindergarten? Yes, Beech?"

"So, um…. everyone else is going to be as naked as we were yesterday?"

I nearly laugh at the perplexed expression on Brutus's face. "Excuse me?"

"You just said a District 7 lumberjack is gonna give us a free show…."

"Oh, for Panem's sake… with an _axe_! Not with his _dick_! What, you think every District 7 bloke has junk shaped like an axe blade? Come on, man, keep up!"

I decide to quickly change the subject before this conversation continues down its very weird turn. "Speaking of who's sidling up to whom…. what would your advice be on allies?"

Brutus looks thoroughly relieved by my intervention, though there is a slight silence as he seriously ponders my question. "Avoid entering into any negotiations - for now," he finally concludes, though with a hint of caution in his voice. "Don't be standoffish, but don't get overly friendly with anyone either. I want each of you to play a more…. mysterious angle."

Haymitch cocks an eyebrow. "Mysterious?"

"Yes, genius – _mysterious_. You're District 12, the underdog with only… a single Victor who went AWOL years ago? No one in this one-horse town ever counts you in because they think you're cannon fodder. Keep them second-guessing that assumption. You already are – I don't think any mentor of yours has gotten as many calls about you as I have. Give them a reason to watch you without letting them know what they should be looking _for_. You following me?"

"The Careers will be watching us, though," Gilla mumbles. "And we already know they'll be allies."

"Don't worry about the Careers," Brutus tells her. "Focus on yourselves."

My little counterpart has raised a very good point, though – one that I've been tossing and turning in my brain ever since we tag-teamed to beat Brutus up on the train. "Why are you helping us?"

Brutus studies me as though I suddenly decided to grow an extra head. "I'm your mentor."

"Yeah, but why are you actually _helping_ us?" I press. "We're the only district who still needs to loan out a mentor from another district. You were probably helping the District 2 Careers last year. You're really willing to elevate us over kids from your own home? Kids you would probably be mentoring now, if not for…."

"But I'm _not_ mentoring District 2. Am I?" Brutus cuts across me. "I'm mentoring _you_. And you. And…. you. And, yeah, OK, even you." He points at me, Beech, Haymitch and Gilla in turn, respectively. "And whatever I think of any of your chances, Maysilee, yes, I am hoping you beat those District 2 kids. I hope you bring pride to your district…. and, yeah, I hope one of you winning grants me an extra cut on my mentoring commission." He glances down at his watch; over an hour has elapsed. "Training starts in fifteen minutes. Dolly, take them downstairs, but don't _hover_. You don't need to hold their hands."

As if on cue, Gilla raises hers. "What is it, Shrimp?"

"Can I at least hold her hand?" Gilla throws out the biggest puppy-dog eyes she can manage and laces her fingers through those of Dolly, who looks to be nearly in ecstasy.

Brutus steams. "Yeah, fine," he grumbles. He shoos us to the elevators. "Remember everything I said! Keep to yourselves! Hide your skills! Learn new things! Make me proud!"

* * *

For the next three days, I spend my time adhering rigorously to Brutus's instructions. That first morning and afternoon, I largely wander the Training Center alone, dabbling in all the stations. The trainer at the long-ranged weapons station is very personable, so I spend some time with him. At one point, I pick up a long bamboo stick and weigh it. It feels comfortable and light in my hand.

"Don't be fooled," the trainer – a handsome young man who can't be much older than Brutus, maybe 22, 23 - warns me. "A sharp blow to the back of a tribute's head with a quarterstaff like this one could knock them out cold, probably even fracture their skull and cause mortal damage, if you swung hard enough. Bamboo may be light, but it's also hard, firm and strong – even when it's hollow."

I think back to the staff of jellybeans I used to subdue Brutus on the train – it would have been hollow too, if not stuffed with candy. "Hollow?"

The trainer, whose name is Proximo, smiles. "Hold your eye up to the end." I do, and realize I can see clear through to the other side. "It's kinda like the telescopes we use in Astronomy class in school, though thinner," I marvel. Indeed, the tunnel vision created by the lens is not as expansive as the telescopes back home.

Proximo laughs. "And check this out." He selects a razor-thin dart from a bucket nearby and deposits it into the end of the quarterstaff. Pointing, he directs me to the firing range just beyond us, to the target dummies up against the wall. "Aim and blow."

My brow crinkling in amusement, I obey, putting the hollow end of the quarterstaff to my lips. Unconsciously, I think of the whispering I used to hear from other girls in the school cafeteria, about how you can take…. other things deep in your mouth and suck. Cheeks turning pink, I cast this memory (and also the image of a certain grey-eyed boy) from my mind and blow.

There's a low, dull THUNKing sound as the dart rockets out across the range and impales itself in a dummy sixty feet away. While I didn't hit the dead center of the target, I came incredibly close.

Proximo beams. "You're a natural, my dear!"

I weakly smile back.

I continue to explore as many of the other stations as possible over the next two days, periodically coming back to chat up Proximo, practice with staffs and ask his advice. How can a staff protect me against a tribute coming at me with a broadsword, for example? He recommends that I use a naginata – a staff with a sharp blade that can be deployed out of one end. Apparently, it was quite the weapon of choice among an ancient people called the Japanese. Using this, he and I practice sparring together until I become what I would judge to be competent.

At lunchtime, I try to use the break to at the very least glom on with someone I know (in that subset, there are only three possible people) so I naturally gravitate towards Haymitch that first morning. Or, I try to. Haymitch seems dead-set on keeping to himself off in one corner. His frosty distancing makes my stomach clench in worry. I had thought we had been warming up to each other yesterday arriving in the Capitol and during the parade. That we'd come to a better understanding after I vouched for him that first night after the Reaping. Stung, I try to brush it off by eating and talking with Gilla, who seems utterly grateful to have someone in here who will be friendly towards her. At lunch the second day, Beech joins us.

The third day is brief, with only the morning allotted to last-minute training. All afternoon, we will be going in one at a time to perform for our private sessions with the Gamemakers. Atala, our Head Trainer, warns us to be patient, especially those of us from the latter districts – with double the numbers, Glanius Crane and his team don't expect to be done until well past nightfall. The live broadcast of everyone's training scores has been pushed back accordingly.

District by district, everyone will be seen boy, girl, and then within that, youngest to oldest, when possible. Since our district will be dead last, I encourage Gilla to get some rest, and she dozes off for a little nap with her head in my lap. With nothing else to do, Beech tries to cajole me into a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, eventually playing the game with just himself when I decline. Haymitch resolutely stares at the floor, not talking to anybody. At first, I think he's fallen asleep too, but then he meets my eyes when he takes a moment to observe Gilla sleeping. His features soften into something that can only resemble warmth, as he peers down at the little girl.

In our little holding room, there is no way to keep time, not even by watching the sun, as this space is devoid of any natural lighting. Finally, only District 12 remains seated on the benches.

"Gilla Callan: please report for individual assessment!" I gently rouse Gilla, cooing at her that's it time to get up, sweetie, the Gamemakers want to see you. When she starts shaking with fear, I pull her tight to me in a long hug.

"Don't be scared, honey. You're gonna do great!"

Beech awkwardly taps her on the shoulder. "Go for it, kid." Haymitch says absolutely nothing.

After about fifteen minutes of sitting alone with only Haymitch and Beech, the automated voice over what I learned is called an intercom summons me. "Maysilee Donner: please report for individual assessment."

Beech and I nod to each other, and as I rise, I hear someone else calling my name.

"Maysilee."

I turn. Haymitch nods to me. "Good luck."

I grant him a small smile. "You too."

Entering the Training Center, I start right for the Long Weapons Station and select the naginata Proximo tutored me in. I spend about five minutes taking sweeping swipes at the air with it, grunting with the exertion.

Suddenly, almost with no warning, a trainer, then two, come running at me with batons raised. I hadn't made an official request for a trainer, but perhaps the Gamemakers want to test me.

Yelling a battle cry, I roll under the first trainer's swipe, pop back up and, flipping the ends of my staff, make a downward slash at the back of his head with all my strength. The blunt end of the naginata wallops him in his skull and he crumples to the ground with a groan.

I leap back, dodging a swipe from the second trainer before flipping the weapon in my hand again, blade side out once more, to parry his next blow. Pressing down and twisting, I manage to dislodge the baton from his palm and close in.

The blade of the naginata actually slashes a gaping hole through his tunic, and he stumbles back in shock. Stuffed padding pokes out from underneath the tear. I whirl the naginata's blade to his neck and he yields.

Turning back to the Long Weapons station, I trade out the naginata for a hollow quarterstaff, grabbing a fistful of darts and loading them. Puckering my lips, I place the one hollow end to my mouth and blow. THUNK.

Reload, blow. Again and again, I do this until I've hit the dead center of the target in ten practice dummies all from over twenty yards away.

"Thank you, Miss Donner. You're dismissed," Glanius Crane finally calls. With a tiny curtsey, I take my leave.

* * *

It's late in the night by the time I, followed by Haymitch and Beech, return to the penthouse suite to watch the training scores trickle in. Gilla is passed out on the couch by the time I get up there. Once Haymitch and Beech return, Brutus looks like he wants to wake her up, but I halt him.

"She's asleep! It's OK…. We'll wake her up when District 12 is about to come on…."

Close to midnight, Caesar Flickerman finally comes live on the air to report the returns coming in.

All a dozen Careers from Districts 1, 2 and 4 receive anywhere from an 8 to a 10 – except for Opal, who manages an 11. Brutus whistles, impressed. The quartet of pre-teens from Three never score higher than a 4. The one, taller boy from District 5 who caught my notice, whose picture even looks sneaky and mischievous, manages an 8; his other three companions end up in the basement. Low to medium for the rest – even the lumberjacks from Seven.

Finally, it's our turn, and I rouse Gilla.

"And last but not least is District 12, beginning with cute little Gilla Callan, with a score of… three," Caesar announces.

Gilla immediately bursts into tears, and I gather her up in my arms. "That's good…. that's good…." I croon, even though we all know it's not true.

"After her, we have the truly beautiful Maysilee Donner, with a score of… 10."

My jaw drops. "What did he just say?!" I squeak, even as Dolly lets out a happy shriek and hugs me.

Brutus turns to me deferentially, his lips pursed tight in a pleased smile. "The little darling's not so sweet…." he muses, and I'm too happy to admonish him on the weird pet name.

I feel a hand clasp mine. "Congrats, Princess." Staring up into Haymitch's impressed eyes, I could care even less about brushing aside his own nickname for me.

"Now for the boys! Here we have the truly ferocious Haymitch Abernathy, with a score of…. 9."

I let out a happy shout and throw my arms around Haymitch's neck. "Way to go, Mitchy!" I actually see him blushing as he awkwardly returns the embrace.

Whatever tension Brutus had in his body seems to leave him. "So you actually listened to what I said, genius. Thank the State." Haymitch pointedly refuses to acknowledge him.

"And rounding out the night is the truly massive Beech Berryhill, with a score of…. 7."

At the far end of the couch, Beech deflates; evidently, he was hoping for something as high as Haymitch or me. I get up to pat his arm. "Don't feel bad, Beech – it was a _good_ score."

"Average, middle-of-the-road is always good," Brutus concurs. "Not too low to put sponsors off, but not too high to make others think you're a target." He must register my quizzical look for he holds up a hand. "Not that you and the Genius didn't do well – I'm very proud of _both_ of you." (Haymitch looks taken aback at the apparent sincerity in our mentor's voice). "Tread lightly – the Careers will be watching you, and if any of them ask what you did to get that score…. demur. Play coy. We want to keep milking that mysterious angle, even for you, Beech, come tomorrow evening with Caesar…. but we'll get to that in the morning." He exhales a deep breath. "All right. Dismissed, everybody."

I lift a crestfallen Gilla up in my arms and carry her off to her rooms.

"Come on, little one – let's get you to bed…." Even though she's already slept half the day away, I hope she'll find some slumber tonight – she'll almost certainly need it.

* * *

**A/N: FirePhoenix11 - Thanks for all your comments. More funny Brutus to come! IgNighted, my good and loyal friend - Thank you so much for always being so dependable. Your comments mean so much to me!**


	5. I'm a Pretty Girl, Mama

**Chapter 5: I'm a Pretty Girl, Mama**

In my case, the Training Score I received from the Gamemakers causes me to sleep with the greatest hope I have felt since the Reaping. I wake up at my usual alarm to get ready for training the last three days feeling well rested. I shower quickly, not even minding so much that my navigation of the shower has only slightly improved from a state of slapping around blindly to half-knowing what buttons to press but still needing to guess.

Then, I turn back to the burgundy tunic and workout pants that I've been wearing in Training for the last three days. I'll need to put them in the wash now and pick out a new outfit, although it should be a slower day – nothing is scheduled for my fellow tributes and I until tonight for our interviews with Caesar Flickerman. Brutus and Dolly will no doubt want to take advantage of our clean itinerary to give us interview prep, but I am not sweating it. I'm not sweating much of anything at the moment….

…. Until I grant a closer inspection to my tunic, running the fabric completely through my fingers more and more frantically, smoothing out every crease just to be sure…. My mockingjay pin! Where is it?! It's been on my clothes since I transferred it over from my Reaping Dress the day we got off the train; Dolly was kind enough to bring our clothes up to the penthouse suite while we were made to traipse around naked for the parade.

I select a new outfit without much thought and dash out into the main living quarters in a panic. Dolly and Gilla are watching some ridiculous Capitol soap opera on television. Beech is at the table, wolfing down some eggs and toast. Brutus and Haymitch are standing at the far edge of the room, clearly having a fairly tense conversation. At least this will distract them – the less time Brutus and Haymitch have alone together, the better.

"My token! Where is my mockingjay pin?!" I cry out, nearly in tears.

"Huh?" Brutus blinks at me.

"The golden pin I've been wearing ever since the Reaping! The one from my sister! _Where is it?!_ "

Comprehension dawns in my mentor's face. "Oh, that! Yeah, I sent Dolly in early this morning to fetch it off your tunic. Got a call from Games Headquarters – I was ordered to submit it for involuntary inspection."

"Why?" I demand.

"They have to inspect it to make sure it can't be used as a weapon," Brutus explains.

Oh. Well…. that's reasonable. My features soften in relief, though I'm still wary. "Will I get it back?"

"That depends on whether or not it's deemed dangerous," Brutus shrugs.

I scrunch my face up in bemusement, shrugging. "It isn't. Unless you count the tip at the end of the fastener, but it's only an inch long! How could I possibly do damage to a tribute with an inch-long thimble prick?"

Brutus chuckles, smiling kindly. "In that case, you'll almost certainly get it back – likely by this evening. I understand what that pin means to you, Maysilee, and don't worry. It's very, _very_ rare for a district token to be disqualified. I'll deliver the pin back to you as soon as it's in my hands, even if I have to pin it on you before you get onstage tonight."

I smile at him gratefully, relieved. Brutus actually gives a genuine smile back and claps his hands together for attention; he appears the most buoyant I have ever seen him. "And speaking of tonight…. I know it may seem like a slow day with no more training, but trust me when I tell you that time is absolutely not going to be our friend today. I will be taking each of you into the conference room one at a time to work on an angle for your interviews tonight. Genius…." he jabs a finger at Haymitch. "Let's get you out of the way first. Those of you not in private prep with me will stay out here with Dolly – she's going to be giving you a lecture in Capitol etiquette. Pay very close attention to what she has to say, especially you, girls."

I bristle at the misogynistic undertone behind the comment, even though I know Brutus didn't mean anything bad by it.

And I can quickly see why he might think Gilla and I have to pay extra attention when Dolly presents us, beaming, with a gift: high heels. In bright neon colors and with three-inches on them.

For the next two hours, Dolly instructs Gilla and I on the proper way to walk around in heels. The experience is starkly different for us both: Kaydliyn and I both received pairs of high heels for our thirteenth birthday three years ago, which happened to coincide with a major party for my father, to celebrate his closing of a landmark business deal with Mellark's Bakery. For a place like District 12, the gift was expensive, even with the windfall of money Daddy accumulated from the negotiated contract: a good chunk of the left-over savings money was spent on the accessories. In contrast, Gilla has never in her life seen any kind of footwear whose emphasis is anything other than purely utilitarian. She is cautious and not at all sure-footed as she attempts to clop around in the pair Dolly loans her – which are slightly too small, even for her. I can also tell from the pinched look on her face that the slender design of the shoe is digging into the arches of her feet. I smile at her in sympathetic encouragement. I only ever wore my high heels back home to adult parties for my parents or the dances hosted by the school, and even with this limited experience, I know how uncomfortable heels are.

Throughout our pacing of the living quarters, Dolly calls out critiques, perched on the couch's armrest. She even ropes poor Beech into the evaluation, tutoring him on all the do's and don't's. The broad Seam boy seems just as out of his depth in giving advice on high fashion as Gilla and I are wearing it.

"Now, remember, girls – a Capitol lady always carries herself with grace and poise…. like this…." Dolly proceeds to feather-walk around us, the soles of her feet hardly touching the ground so that she appears to float on air. Gilla makes a half-hearted attempt at copying her, causing her to trip, stumble forward in a bizzare crouch and nearly fall flat on her face.

Dolly cringes. "So that doesn't mean we _slouch_ like this!" She stomps around, back bent like a hunchback in an only somewhat accurate representation of Gilla's catching herself, contextually speaking.

A squeaky kind of laugh emanates from the couch; when I glare at him, Beech manages to obscure it into a coughing fit, clearing his throat. "Sorry, Gilla," he mumbles sheepishly.

Except that Gilla is giggling right along with him. The joviality seems to perplex our escort, who clearly sees such concepts as posture and gait as deadly serious business. "Well, the least you could do is put a little more effort into it!" she scoffs, but she is fighting an upturn in her lips, as if she's trying not to laugh herself. "You're trying, Maysilee, dear, but you have to be _on_ all the time! It's…. it's like a performance! A performance except the point is never to reveal to others your true self – ever."

Gilla merely giggles again. "What, like that clothes show you and I were watching early this morning? What was it called..?"

Dolly blinks, smiling softly. " _Capitol Fashions_."

Gilla brightens in delight at this; next moment, she is making a grandiose impersonation of the models on that show. Knowing the basics of runways myself (the Merchants in Twelve once held a charity fashion show to raise funds one winter after part of the Justice Building's roof caved in), I take on the role of announcer. "Gilla Callan is up next, flaunting it in a stunning design from Madame Lucia's boutique – the latest trend in elite Capitol footwear!" The exaggerated pretend actually does wonders on both Gilla's posture and gait; she is carrying herself with the most confidence I have ever seen from her since the day she was plucked with me from the Reaping Bowl. Beech is hooting obnoxiously, egging Gilla on. Smirking, I soon join in the fun, Gilla trading off to "announce" me as I strike poses more and more daring and flirtatious. Dolly shrieks in surprise and mirth. She is nearly in tears, she's so thrilled.

"That's it, Gilla! You're getting it! If you walk onstage tonight and greet Caesar Flickerman just like that, sponsors will think you're a real Capitol lady!"

A sudden crash and shout from the next room makes us all jump, the merriment extinguished like a candle flame. The conference room where Brutus and Haymitch have been working alone is almost like a fish bowl with clear glass on every side…. except that Brutus drew all the curtains so we couldn't see what they were planning. While the conference area isn't entirely soundproof, the noise is deadened enough that I can't make out what the now raised voices are saying. I wince, debating whether or not to go in there and intervene.

I wonder if a mentor has ever actually killed their tribute before delivering them to the arena. From how loud Victor and tribute have gotten, I don't really want to know the answer.

Gilla turns back to Dolly. "Why do I have to be like a Capitol lady? Why can't I be a district lady? Why can't I be…. me?" Her eyes cast down to the heels on her feet that are still leaving her slightly unwieldy.

I suspect Dolly has an answer, but doesn't want to voice it. Perhaps it doesn't matter – the subtext in her silence is clear enough to me. I try to brush it aside, the implications of what the Capitol really thinks of the districts – and the people in them – to disconcerting to contemplate.

"…. you stubborn, through-going ASS!"

The door to the conference room bangs open suddenly and with such force, the hinges rattle dangerously. Haymitch comes slinking out like an animal on the hunt, his handsome face a tempestuous storm cloud. Gilla squeaks and scurries out of his way. I bite my lip in concern, wanting nothing more than to reach out to him, yet already knowing if I try, he won't take it well.

If it were possible, Brutus actually looks worse – apoplectic, in fact. "Die if you want to, you misguided martyr!" he screams at Haymitch's retreating back. The former Career finally registers how the rest of us are all cautiously staring at him, and can only manage a sigh.

"Dolly, which one of them's gotten the hang of…. whatever this is?" he gestures amidst the remnants of our childlike fashion game.

"Well…. I need more time with Gilla, and I haven't even gotten to gentlemanly comportment for Beech. Why don't you take Maysilee in the meantime?"

"Perfect," Brutus huffs gratefully. "Keep drilling with them. Save Mr. Stable Genius for last, or you'll get even less out of him than I did." He beckons to me, and I wordlessly follow him into the fishbowl conference room.

In one corner are two comfortable chairs, facing each other. The conference table behind them is pristine, untouched. Brutus ushers me into one seat and faces me in the other.

"Now, interview prep for every mentor is different. We'll get to roleplaying in a minute…. with the first order of business there being to come up with a different verb, because 'roleplaying' just sounds kinky. Anyway, in mentoring last year, I learned that the best strategy is for you and I to hone out a niche together. In order to come up with an angle, I need to find out who _you_ are. I don't have time for any guarded, 'Oh, I'm-Shy' bullshit. Some tributes play the shy angle onstage, and that's fine, but being shy will never make you Victor. So:" he pauses to catch a deep breath. "Why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself?"

I squirm a little in my seat, feeling put on the spot. "That file didn't tell you much, huh?"

"It told me some things," Brutus waves away. "But not everything – and if I'm going to help you, Maysilee, I need to know _everything_ : test scores, childhood, family life, weird fetishes…."

"Weird fetishes?" I wrinkle my nose.

Brutus oddly flinches. "OK, maybe not that. Boyfriends…."

I feel my face flush. "I don't have a boyfriend. Never have."

"Of course you haven't." He doesn't look like he believes me. "Now, quit stalling. It's OK to be a little nervous, but remember: it's just me. That's what practice is for. And once you're up there, Caesar will know how to put you at ease even better than I could. Now, enlighten me: who is the _real_ Maysilee Donner? What makes you special?"

There is a gaping silence, as I try to turn the question over in my head. What _does_ make me special? I'm not precocious like my sister. I'm not civically minded like Merle. Though I know some boys think of me as pretty, I'm not drop-dead _gorgeous_ like Belle. I'm not brave like Haymitch, or strong like Beech. I'm just…. me.

After a moment, Brutus tries a different approach. "Let's start small, and see if that helps. What was it like, growing up in District 12? How was your home life?"

I shrug. "Idyllic. My family runs the sweet shop in Town. Kaydilyn and I take turns manning the counter."

Brutus capitalizes on something. "You run the candy shop. OK, I know of a way we can transition that into an angle: you're caring. Kind. Sweet as all those little sarsaparilla candies you make in your shop." I cringe awkwardly; it sounds like a tagline from a Capitol commercial. Seeing my expression, Brutus chuckles. "You don't believe me."

"No, I believe you, but…."

"You've been caring and kind to the Shrimp."

"Her name is Gilla," I remind him.

"Yes, Gilla. That's not nothing. See, Maysilee, the way this works is you have to start being confident in yourself. Right now, your self-esteem is a flat line. You need to find out what's special about you, and show it some respect!"

"But there's not anything special about me!" I blurt out. "I'm completely ordinary. Kaydilyn's the one who everyone gravitates towards."

"Ah, yes: Kaydilyn. Your twin sister, right? Tell me about her."

There's only so much I can tell Brutus about my twin, partially because a large part of what makes her stand out is a simmering desire for sedition against the government. If I told Brutus this, I don't think he would hesitate reporting such a thing to the Peacekeepers or higher authorities, no matter how he and I have become something close to friends over the course of this week.

"She's out-spoken. Has a very strong sense of right and wrong."

"And you don't?" Brutus is challenging me, I know he is, but the comment still rubs me the wrong way.

"Just because Kaydilyn and I are fraternal twins doesn't mean we're polar opposites! I stand up for what I believe in! I even stood up for Haymitch so he could take the same advanced courses as me in Upper School!"

This gets Brutus's attention. " _Really_? You vouched for a Seam boy like that? I don't know much about District 12 society, but from what I've read up on, I know there is some class warfare between Merchants like you and those who live in the Seam, out by the coalfields. Apparently, it runs quite deep. Now why would you go against that for a boy you didn't even know until last Monday?"

I don't have an answer. I didn't even have much of an answer last summer, when people asked me why I had stood up at the town hall meeting. I'm burning up, my cheeks are glowing the shade of cotton candy. And Brutus _notices_. He leans back in his chair, an 'Ah- _ha_!' expression blazed across his face. But if he wants to press me on it, he mercifully doesn't.

We veer off from Haymitch and my personal life for a while. Brutus still seems quite intent on working the sweet, district-girl-next-door routine for me, and even though it's never announced, we seem to flow seamlessly into the roleplaying section without either of us noticing. Posing as Caesar, Brutus asks me all kinds of questions – any and all are fair game when Caesar takes the microphone tonight – and we work on rehearsing solid answers.

"Now, Maysilee, apparently you have a twin sister. Would this be her?" We're back on talking about Kaydilyn again, but this time, Brutus suddenly summons a projector screen from the ceiling. My Reaping is played back in front of me, up to and including when Belle broke down in my arms.

I shake my head. "No. That's my best friend, Belle. Although we're close as sisters."

"How interesting. She's quite a pretty little thing…." and Brutus drops out of character for a moment to check out her body. "What did she say to you when she said goodbye?"

Back and forth we keep going like this. By the time we're done, two hours have flown by, though it feels longer. As I get up to leave and send Gilla in, Brutus stops me by the door.

"Maysilee, listen…." He falters, scratching the back of his neck.

I peer at him, frowning, bemused. "What?"

Brutus sighs. "I don't want to do this…. I don't want to ask it, but…. There has been quite a bit of chatter about you, from lots of sponsors. Real high rollers. They're asking questions – one question in particular."

My confusion deepens. "And what's that?"

"They're asking…. how you are in bed." He gets the last out in a rush, grimacing at how my mouth drops open in an astonished 'O'. "There are quite a handful of influencers who would be willing to back you all the way, to hopefully, in the event that you become Victor, have a night with you."

Everything seems to sway around me. I feel a sting go up my forearm; I must have bumped into the wall. "Why are you telling me this?" I whisper.

"Because they want proof." I feel Brutus's paw of a hand brush my cheek and I twist away. Brutus is now practically pleading. "Please, Maysilee. Let me sleep with you. It wouldn't even hurt that much, and if you do it, I'll make sure you practically skip through the arena. You wouldn't want for anything; I'd have access to funds that would keep you going in there for over a month, probably more!"

I thrash away from him, eyes flashing. "You monster!"

Brutus appears shattered. "No, Maysilee, listen…. this was not my idea! And you're right, I never should have even asked it of you, but you're my best chance to win!"

This makes me take pause.

"Do you hear me? You're my best chance at giving your district a Victor – one they badly need! But my contacts are hesitant to release their money until they can see what you can do. That's the way the Games are played here. I didn't want to put you up to this, but I don't want you to die…."

No more. I refuse to hear any more. Yanking open the door, I flee down the hall, nearly in tears, ignoring Brutus's and then Dolly and Beech's calls to stop. None of them pursue me, though, for which I am grateful.

All at once, I nearly crash into Haymitch, just emerging from his rooms. He catches me, holds me against him as I struggle to get away.

"Whoa, whoa, what's going on? Maysilee, are you OK?"

I sniffle, refusing to meet his eyes. "I'm fine."

"Bullshit. You look like you've just seen Lucy Gray Baird's ghost. Now what happened?"

I gulp. My throat has chosen this moment to refuse to work, but I manage to spit it out anyway. "Brutus propositioned me."

Haymitch draws back, his face going white. "He _what_?" Worrying his bottom lip, he finally elects to drag me further down the hall until we're at the far end, huddled under a window overlooking the back-lot of the Training Center. Far below, some Capitol citizens take sight of us and their cheers faintly waft up to us, but I ignore it all.

Haymitch takes me by the shoulders. "What did he say to you? Did he kiss you?"

"No," I shake my head, eyes as big as saucers.

"Did he _touch_ you?" A bear doesn't have the growl in Haymitch's voice.

"No. Well, he touched my face, but nothing else."

Haymitch's orbs cloud over until they are as grey as flint. "He's dead."

"No!" I yelp, grabbing for my classmate and holding him against me. "Haymitch, he didn't even want to ask me. He felt obligated to, because he's under a lot of pressure from potential backers…."

"So the sponsors want to sleep with you too?" Haymitch is beside himself. "Gods, how many sickos do we got in this joint? And why would Brutus take such a vested interest…." He trails off abruptly, an epiphany hitting him. He stares at me almost in wonderment, as he answers his own question.

"Because he's chosen you. You're the one he's going to keep alive."

Something acidic – likely guilt – churns in my gut. "No, no," I try to lie. "I'm sure he'll give parachutes to you and the others…."

"Liar," he snorts, but it doesn't hold any bite. I don't even think Haymitch is directing the epithet at me. "Every mentor has to choose who they're going to keep alive at some point, Maysilee. Otherwise, no one would die in the arena, would they? And somehow, some time, Brutus is going to have to make a choice, provided the arena or the Gamemakers don't make the choice for him. Especially if two or more of us get far enough. If you and I and maybe even Beech make it close to the end, Brutus will have to pick _one_ of us to save. He can't pick all of us." Once again, the near-certainty of Gilla's doom goes unmentioned.

My blue eyes have become glassy, my lip trembling. "Haymitch…." I whimper. "I'm sorry."

The frown he sends my way is ugly, but then it deflates with the rest of him. "It's not your fault. If Brutus thinks you deserve to win, then you do. He hates my guts anyway."

"You or Beech don't deserve to win any less than I do," I protest. "Especially you. You deserve to go home to your family."

"What? Like how you decided I _deserved_ to go to class with all you Merchant kids?" he cracks a sad, rueful smirk in my direction.

I gulp, suddenly feeling very nervous. If he keeps looking at me like that, I just know I'll do something I'll regret. Something rash.

The blood is pounding in my ears so much, I barely hear Haymitch's next question. "Why _did_ you do it? Advocate for me to test into the advanced courses?"

I can't bear to look at him, and can only hope against hope that the dim lighting obscures the warmth in my face. "I… I don't know."

Once again, I lie, but unlike before, Haymitch doesn't call me out on it.

* * *

Antonia must have been sufficiently intimidated by Brutus's raging and threats because, thankfully, I will not be going out onstage tonight naked.

I am standing before the mirror in the dressing rooms in back of the Capitol Recital Hall, staring at my reflection. I am as radiant as the sun…. which is probably helped by the fact that my dress is bright yellow, to highlight the color accents of my naturally blonde hair. Just the right touch of mascara has been applied to my eyes, and rouge to my cheeks.

Behind me, Quillia and Bette are both observing their handiwork, looking teary. "Oh, my dear, you look…. sensational!" the latter chokes up.

"Is she ready?!" Brutus comes barging in at that moment, looking a little strung out. When I turn to face him, he leans back a little, taking me in. He nods once in tight approval. "Very good. Oh, and I got your pin back, Maysilee. Just in time, too." He steps closer, and I instinctively flinch back, causing a flash of hurt to appear in his eyes. Neither Qullia nor Bette appear to notice the change in the atmosphere. "Would you…. like me to pin it on..?" Brutus's voice is the shakiest I have ever heard it.

"I can do it myself, thank you," I say brusquely, taking the pin from him and fastening it over my left breast, directly over my heart. I all but run past him to join the other tributes in the wings.

"Maysilee…." Brutus tries to stall me, his tone overflowing with regret. "I –"

I shake my head. "Save it. We'll talk about it later." It's a vague commitment, one that I don't know if I will keep, or if I'll even be able to. I believe Brutus when he says he was pressured into propositioning me. As to whether I'll forgive him for doing so…. I'm less certain. And in any case, I very well may end up dead by this time tomorrow, so perhaps the point is moot anyway.

Sliding past the bustling technicians and stagehands, I find my friends, predictably at the back of the line. Haymitch – statuesque in a sharp tuxedo – blinks rather rapidly upon seeing me. "Wow," he breathes. "You look great!" The compliment does wonders to my mood, making me almost forget my awkward encounter with our mentor just moments earlier.

"He's right," Beech nods vigorously. He too is in a striking tuxedo, though his is white, while Haymitch's is the classical black. Gilla is clad in a foresty-green dress with fairy wings; I guess Antonia was going for some kind of tree nymph motif – which, to be honest, is a damn sight nicer than the coal miner routine from the parade. I take my place behind the little girl, working a massage into her shoulders to calm her clear nerves. The order of our interviews is structured the same as our private sessions: girls before boys, and this year, age in ascending order within that. I will be third-to-last of all forty-eight tributes, with Haymitch right after me and Beech rounding out the night.

The program's anthem starts playing, and we all shuffle forward in line to mount the risers onstage. Moments after we take our seats, Caesar Flickerman comes bounding on – his hair and skin shaded the color of blood-orange smog – and the interviews begin.

Only a few really stick out in my head. Each Career tries posturing him/herself as more intimidating than the last. Among them, only Opal seems to make a memorable impression, gallingly guaranteeing that she will break the record for most kills by a single tribute that Brutus tied two years ago (and that was apparently set by Ahenobarbus Romero himself, the very first Victor) on her way to taking the Crown. The boy from 5 who caught my eye at the Reaping hedges over how exactly he got such a fine score. Aside from these two, everyone else who comes before us seems largely forgettable. I don't have any qualms about letting Gilla doze off in my lap sometime around District 6's questioning. I even start to nod off myself.

Then, the buzzer is sounding, jolting my body awake in response, and Haymitch is nudging both Gilla and me. I hastily nudge the little girl forward, hissing a reminder in her ear to not be nervous. Thankfully, Caesar quickly puts her at ease by clueing in to her dwindling fatigue and making a bit out of it. "Are the tributes this year really that much of a yawn, little one?" he asks of her.

"Maybe," Gilla shrugs, trying to be as nice as she can. "I won't be, Caesar. You'll remember me, just wait and see! So don't count me out!"

"I wouldn't in a million years," Caesar gives her a small side-hug. The spotlights wash out everyone not in the front row, but that doesn't stop me from noticing Brutus (in a prime seat) nodding his approval at Gilla's response, pleased.

Then, the buzzer is sounding, and I feel myself standing. Strong, calloused hands belonging to Haymitch press into the small of my back to gently push me forward. A jolt of electricity shoots up my spine where his palm touched my bare skin and I seem to almost sleepwalk forward onto the stage.

That strange sensation of being underwater that I first experienced at the Reaping is back, consuming me so thoroughly that I completely miss Caesar's first question. "What?" I blink stupidly. The audience roars with laughter.

Caesar giggles, throwing me a lifeline. "Uh-oh, I think somebody's a little nervous. I asked: what have you enjoyed most about the Capitol so far, Maysilee?"

A softball. Brutus and I rehearsed a near equivalent of this question. I can do this. "You have interesting showers," I offer up. "Has anyone ever told you that you have too many buttons? We only need two dials back home in District 12 – hot and cold." The audience eats it up, and I feel the butterflies in my stomach start to dissipate. "The first time I tried it, Caesar, it felt like the shower spray was attacking me!"

My smile is starting to become more natural, and Caesar giggles in delight. "I'm sure it must have been quite a culture shock. Now, Maysilee: how is life back home for you in District 12?"

I tell him about the chocolatier, and all the candies we make, and about how I man the counter, "although my twin sister is more of the saleswoman."

"Twin sister, hmm?" Caesar's eyes dance, intrigued. "Would this be her?"

Brutus damn near called it in our prep. Now as then, a projector screen behind us plays back the moment of my Reaping. Belle holding onto me. I smile with sentimentality. "Actually, that's Belle Foley, my very best friend, although she and I are practically sisters. Kaydilyn, my actual twin, is… that one." I point her out when the footage allows her to appear in frame, looking as enraged as she was that day. I don't fail to note how the Capitol quickly cuts away from the playback.

"Any special boyfriend at home, Maysilee?"

An image of Haymitch makes my smile broaden unbidden, even as I shake my head. "No."

"Are you sure?" Caesar purrs. "Striking lady like you. It's OK to say, you know. We promise not to tell."

I shake my head, lips pursed and sealed.

Caesar softly takes my hand, the way a close friend might. "One more question, Miss Donner: if you became a Victor, you would have riches and power beyond imagination. What would you use your influence to do?"

I ponder this for a moment before I seize on an answer. "I would encourage everyone to be kinder to one another. Being naturally kind isn't something that comes easily to my district, especially when in regards to the poor. If I do return home alive to District 12, I aim to change that."

"A humanitarian! How delightful!" Caesar crows and the audience roars so loudly, I barely hear the buzzer. "Very best wishes, Maysilee Donner!" When I retake my seat, I see Haymitch studying me with a curious look on his face as he passes me in the other direction. Caesar greets him warmly, and I do my best to pay more attention than I have the whole night.

"So, Haymitch, what do you think of your odds with this Games having 100% more competitors than usual?"

Haymitch sprawls back in his chair like he hasn't a care in the world, and when it comes to his answer, he doesn't miss a beat. "I can't see how it'll make much difference – they'll all be 100% as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same." The audience gives their most enthusiastic response since Opal's vow to shatter the kill record, and I watch the Jumbotron catch Haymitch's smirk – cocky. Arrogant. Indifferent. He's carrying himself more like a Career who expects the Crown than a scrappy underdog from Twelve. He keeps Caesar off-balance with his smart-aleck answers the whole rest of his interview, and by the time his three minutes are up, people are chanting his name. I don't envy Beech having to follow that act – unfortunately, for the Seam giant, I can hardly remember what was said.

Our dismissal from the Recital Hall is a little chaotic, and I am quickly separated from my district partners in the clamor out to the street. Luckily, I do manage to find Dolly in the crowd, and we hail a cab back to the Training Center together.

Evidently, we're the last ones of our entourage to arrive, for we step off the elevator into the midst of a heated argument. Brutus is practically nose-to-nose with Haymitch, yelling himself hoarse like some kind of Peacekeeper drill sergeant, his charge staring defiantly back with Beech feebly trying to break it up before the pair come to blows. Gilla is huddled in the farthest corner of the wrap-around couch, eyes huge with fear.

"Are you crazy, you blithering idiot?! What in the hell was that?! '100% as stupid as usual'? You practically mooned the audience with that line! Dared the Careers into taking you down! You might as well have been flashing a sign at Glanius Crane, reading 'Hey, Gamemakers! Come eat me!'" Brutus is beside himself with rage.

Dolly goes to relieve Beech of attempting to make the best peace. "Brutus, to Haymitch's credit, it was one of the most memorable lines of the night. They're already replaying it in recaps!"

"Probably to send a subtle message to Snow that we need to take this guy out!" Brutus spits, gesturing at Haymitch with pure loathing. "Congratulations, genius. You just signed your death warrant. If you even make it out of the bloodbath alive, it'll be a miracle!"

Haymitch's jaw grinds in rage. "I'll make it farther than that, dipstick! I'm going all the way, and then you'll have to –"

"What? Respect you? Bitch, that'll never happen – not that it matters, cause you ain't getting within one mile of that Victor's Crown! None of you are!"

" _Brutus_!" Dolly hisses, glancing apologetically at each of us in turn. "I think you're being a little pessimistic. This is the finest batch District 12 has produced in years – I mean that sincerely," she makes sure we all meet her eyes, and I feel my heart warm in fondness for her.

"No, Dolly!" Brutus snaps, turning sharply to face her. "They need to hear this from me, not you – I'm the mentor! With the way they've been conducting themselves, they'll all be dead within a week. There's a thing. called. _talent_!" slapping his palm on each of the last three words for emphasis. "They don't have it!"

I frown hard. I thought I actually did what Brutus expected of me in my interview. But it's what my mentor says next that shocks me most of all.

"Maysilee is the only one who might be able to pull it out, but that's only if everything breaks her way!"

My cheeks instantly flush with embarrassment, and my gaze sweeps the room, especially Haymitch, terrified that he'll be angry with Brutus for elevating me (albeit with qualifiers) above the rest of them. His expression, however, is unreadable beyond its stony mask.

Brutus lets out a loud and long sigh, drained, running a tired hand over his face. "All of you go to bed. I can't stand to look at any one of you."

"Mr. Barsetti?"

" _What_ , Gilla?"

"Everything's going to be OK…. right?"

He looks down at her like she's deluded, and I bravely shoot a glare at him. "Don't pay him any mind, Gilla. Come on," I hold out my arms, and she leaps into them. "Let's get you cleaned up."

I don't fall off right away after getting Gilla down to sleep. I keep thinking of everything that's transpired over the last five days. Fighting Brutus on the train. Painfully exposed during the parade. The mock-fashion show with Dolly, Gilla and Beech. Brutus propositioning me. And of course, my relationship with Haymitch that seems to violently seesaw from one unclear extreme to the next.

Tomorrow, we will all be thrown into the arena. I may never see any of these people again. I may never see another _day_ again. On the other hand, if Brutus really believes what he said, about how I could do it provided I drew the luckiest inside straight in anyone's life, maybe I will see many more days after this one.

Can I really do it? Can I really win the Hunger Games and bring honor to my district – a feat that only one person from Twelve has managed to achieve?

It might take me the whole rest of my lifetime – however long or short it might yet be – to find out.


	6. Glory With Honor

**Chapter 6: Glory With Honor**

A combination of nerves and a body clock that has been out of whack all week jostles me awake sometime in the wee hours of the morning. Unable to find slumber or any kind of peace again, I morosely watch what little light there is poking through the curtains turn from navy to grey to pink. Sunrise.

Sighing, I swing my legs out of bed and check the clock on my nightstand. 8 A.M. In exactly two hours, I will be launched into the arena, at which time I will probably face my doom. I drag myself to the shower, not bothering to pay as close attention as to which buttons bring on which settings. I'll likely never need to know these keystrokes again. My bleary eyes are banished by the scalding hot jets of water and green exfoliator that rains down on me, but I hardly feel it anywhere else. Rubbing the green foam through my blonde tresses, I think that at least I'll have done some of my prep team's work for them.

By the time I step out, a towel wrapped around my breasts, it is getting on 8:30. I jump a little at seeing Dolly in my room, going through my wardrobe. At least she isn't Brutus. My escort smiles at me, holding out my beige Reaping dress.

"Good morning, dear. Wear this to breakfast and the hovercraft for now. You'll have arena clothes to change into once you arrive on-site; Antonia will be there to help you."

I nod, allowing Dolly to drop the dress over my head. I even let her pin my mockingjay pendant on, once again directly over my heart.

Eyes becoming glassy, I wrap her in a hug, which I feel her stiffen at. Eventually, she pats me on top of the head, and I draw away.

"Thank you," I murmur.

We enter the living area to find everyone else already at breakfast. Brutus is splitting his attention between the clock and a newspaper folded open at his place, finger scanning what looks to be betting odds already placed for the first day of the Games. Beech is pushing a muffin around on his plate, his face a ghastly pallor of seasick green. Gilla is openly weeping, her voice a breathless gasp as she repeats over and over, "I don't wanna die…. I don't wanna die…."

Haymitch is glaring at everyone in sight, including the little girl. Including me. Shooting him a warning look, I take a seat next to Gilla and whisper comfort to her.

"Gilla, when you get in there, stay calm. I will try to find you and take you along, and we'll try to get away."

She whimpers. "You promise?"

I nod my head firmly, feeling Brutus's sharp gaze at my back but not giving a damn what he thinks. "I promise." I hold out my arms to her. "Hold tight to me." We stay wrapped in an embrace, almost like mother and child, for the rest of the meal, eating what we can keep down. Though it isn't much – frankly, I've lost my appetite.

The clock chimes to strike the top of the hour. 9 A.M. No one responds, the atmosphere as silent as the death that awaits at least three of the people sitting here, to greet us possibly by the end of today. Brutus blithely raises his eyes to the clock, sighs, and folds up his newspaper.

"Hour to go." The terrors of my imagination are running away with me, hearing him sound like the Grim Reaper itself. "We'd best get to the roof. It's a long hovercraft ride to the arena, and the pilots want to fly with the tailwinds." We all get up morosely, not even bothering to clear our plates. Will the dishes of untouched food still be here, after we're gone from the earth? Who will clean them away finally, washing away the last signs that we – four people – were ever here? I try to banish such morbid thoughts, but the stone lodged in my gut won't let me do it.

The six of us manage to squeeze into the elevator, which rockets us up one floor to the roof of the Training Center. A hovercraft, its rotors lazily spinning, awaits. Gilla still puts her hands over her ears.

Brutus has to raise his voice slightly over the insistent breeze from the plane. "If you make it past the Cornucopia, run and find a source of water as fast as possible. If you don't by the end of the day, dehydration will set in quickly, and then you're pretty much done for. If you can't retrieve a weapon, make one out of whatever you can."

Haymitch scowls at him. "Anything else?"

Brutus glares right back. "Yeah: stay alive, genius." Our mentor crosses his arms over his chest. "Glory with honor," he intones. I recognize the custom: it's a common sign of goodwill amongst the Careers, usually seen near the end of the Games before their alliance turns on each other in an event colloquially known as melee.

Beech and Haymitch copy him clumsily, but don't say the words. I don't participate at all, finding it highly hypocritical that Careers can talk of such things as 'glory' and 'honor' when they're the most ruthless killers in the Games. I watch as Beech kneels down and wraps Gilla in a hug, murmuring something to her. I feel a light touch on my arm and I turn.

Brutus is there, looking sheepish. "Maysilee…. you can do this. And…. I'm sorry."

I nod once, curtly. "I know." He nods back, mouth drawn, and waves us forward to the hovercraft. Dolly stops me briefly to give me one last hug farewell. "Good luck, dear."

We all clamber into the plane; I am forced into a seat between Haymitch and Beech. On Beech's other side, I watch as a Peacekeeper injects a tracker into Gilla's arm; she bites her lip, not even having time to cry out in pain.

As the officer moves on to Beech, Haymitch and I look at each other. I don't know what he finds in my expression, but whatever it is, he holds out his hand to me. Mouth dry, I take it.

"You OK?"

"Yeah," I nod, my voice strangled, even to my own ears. I feel the Peacekeeper line up the vein in my arm, and Haymitch squeezes my hand. I grasp tightly back; oddly, I don't even feel the tracker being injected into my arm.

It is as impossible to keep time in a hovercraft as it surely will be once we're in the arena, but the ride probably takes about 45 minutes. We're alone in the belly of the plane, without any of our other competition. No one says a word. The rumble of the plane beneath us lulls me into a strange sense of complacency, and when we finally land, I start when I realize that Haymitch and I are still holding hands. I don't move to pull my fingers away, and neither does he. We stride down the gangplank in this manner, watching the guards coming over to separate us.

Haymitch turns to face me, his face appearing uncharacteristically gentle. "You'll be all right?"

I shrug. It seems like a silly question to ask: all but one of us will be dead within the next few weeks. But instead, I just say, "Sure."

He nods. "Well…. take care of yourself."

"You too." Then, before I lose my nerve, I stand up on my tippy-toes and brush my lips against his cheek. He bristles in surprise, and I can't help but smile weakly at his shock. "For luck."

His mouth twists funny, like the muscles in his face are in indecision over whether he should smirk or frown. The smirk finally wins out, though it's slight.

The guards separate us, and I am hustled into an underground vom. Guided into a clinically white launch room, I find Antonia waiting for me. My arena garb is a black undershirt and trekky pants with rough fabric. A light jacket completes the ensemble – perhaps the nights will be cool. For the final touch, Antonia fastens the mockingjay pin over my breast. I stare down at my Reaping dress, to be left behind here, sadly. I will never see it again….

"Ten seconds to launch!"

Antonia hugs me goodbye, and I let her; she may have acted like a vainglorious cow at the parade, but she made up for it.

I step into the glass launch tube, and hear it seal around me with a hiss. It is only now that the fear threatens to debilitate me and I whirl around in a panic. Antonia only gives me a slight nod. Then, I feel the pod rise, pushing me up, up, up into….

I don't know what to make of this place. It is almost…. pleasant. Religion is expressly forbidden in Panem, but I have heard of some people furtively speak of a plane of existence beyond this one. A place called 'heaven.'

Is that where I am now? Have I been cut down already, my life as a tribute – my life _period_ – ended, and I just didn't feel it or don't remember it?

We are standing on our pedestals in a vast meadow, not unlike the meadow that is just beyond the border fence back home in District 12. Belle and Danny have often snuck out there to be alone; my sister once told me how she took Merle Undersee out there last spring and lost her virginity to him, making love amidst the tall grasses….

The grasses here are as high as in the meadow back home; they'll probably come up to my calves. I turn my head – a large forest is at my back. To the west, in the distance, a snowcapped mountain strains up to kiss the robin's egg-blue heavens. There's the Cornucopia, about forty yards ahead of me, glinting in the sunlight. I am directly in the path of the gaping, yawning mouth of the horn. Backpacks, weapons and an assortment of other supplies spill out from the pile stacked within the mouth, spreading out sparser and sparser.

I'll never be able to make "The Run", as I've heard some Victors call it on TV, and rush back out alive. If I go in too deep, I'll be killed….

The holographic square above the Cornucopia has been counting down steadily: 30 seconds now, and dwindling… Shifting my eyes downward, I spy a bright red backpack, about fifteen yards ahead of me and slightly to the left. I kneel into a crouch, tunnel vision making that backpack, and the long staff leaning against it, seem like the only things in the world. If I can reach it, turn right around and make for the trees behind me….

The gong sounds, and I spring like a gazelle off my pedestal a second later.

I race for the red backpack at a dead sprint, snatching it up and the staff at its side. I can feel from the weight of it in my hands that it's hollow, like the ones Proximo showed me back in the Training Center. As I stoop to swing the backpack over my shoulder, I spy a second staff lying in the grasses and grab it too. Just in case I lose the other one.

A roar makes me look up. One of the boys from District 2, short and stout (he can't be any older than 14, which is unusual – most Careers wait until they're 18 to be deployed to the arena) is bull-rushing me with a javelin. I am too stunned to move as I watch the weapon's tip sail through the air towards me as it leaves his hand. I observe it close in on my breast, a direct hit to my heart….

It bounces off lamely, and I stagger back in shock. By sheer luck, the javelin's tip hit the golden metal of my mockingjay pin. The little pendant saved my life.

The small Career has skidded to a stop about four feet from me, blinking at how he could have possibly failed to make that kill. Then, with a bellow of rage, he charges me.

I don't have time to think. With two sticks in each hand, I flick both of them with that muscle memory I learned in training.

Nothing happens to the staff in my right hand. I hear the HSSH of a blade emerging from the staff at my left. A naginata.

The Career is lunging for me, reaching for my throat. I run him through without another thought.

The small Career sags against me, gaping at me in shock. I too am astonished, as I yank the blade back out of him, hearing the nauseating tear of flesh before my first kill flops back into the meadow grasses and lies still.

The cannon strangely doesn't fire, but it doesn't have to – I'm already scarred for life. Skittish as a deer, I turn tail and run with what I have. I neglect to claim the javelin that failed to take my life.

My stride doesn't slow until I've reached just inside the line of trees, and I glance back. About a quarter of the way around the arena, in the distance, I see another tribute just hitting the treeline. From so far away, I can't tell who it is. I can just make out the outline of the small District 2 Career, lying sprawled in the grass. Everyone else appears to be just moving off their own plates, as if they're all in some kind of trance.

An image of Gilla flashes in my brain, and I briefly debate doubling back and trying to fetch her, but with 45 other kids only now just making a dash for the horn, it would take too long. I spin around and wind-sprint onward into the trees.

Everything looks the same around here, and I try keeping my breathing even so as not to panic. Tributes – even those who make it close to the end – have been known to panic before; I've seen it happen. And too often, panicking leads right into making careless, sloppy mistakes…. with devastating consequences.

I finally lean against a solid pine to rest when my lungs can't get any more air. I can't tell how long it's been since I fled the Cornucopia, not even by checking the patterns of the sun – only dapple patterns of sunlight are able to filter in past the expansive canopy above me. My internal body clock – shot to hell over the past week – also won't be of much help.

Nevertheless, after what I estimate to be about two hours since the start of the Games, I begin to hear the cannons.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM….

I keep careful count, breathing out the next number until I reach 18, and the retorts halt.

Eighteen tributes dead, including the Career I took out. Thirty left to play. In any ordinary year, that would have blasted us right past the traditional Final Eight, probably only leaving the Careers standing so they could go into melee. This year, though, there is still more than a whole arena still out there. Are Haymitch, Beech and little Gilla among the survivors? I dearly hope so, but I won't know for sure until nightfall.

Till then, I slide heavily down the trunk of my tree and open the clasp on the pack, ready to study my loot. A bowl – empty. Two dozen darts – glancing to the hollow staff at my side, I smile. It's like this backpack was gathered and filled for me! I can use the hollow quarterstaff as a blowpipe. In the next moment, though, my grin falters. Even if I could stick tributes with darts, what good would that do me? It would likely have the same, non-fatal effect as if I tried to slice everyone's wrists using nothing but the inch-long tip of my pin. I set the bundle of darts back into the backpack; I'll figure it out later.

A pack of dried beef jerky, and I lick my lips hungrily. I refrain from digging into the bounty, though – until I can find another source of food, I will have to make this last as long as I can. I scan the trees around me: are there any wild animals in here? I spent a decent amount of time at the Survival Skills station in training; I know how to set a few snares now. I breathe deeply again, to calm my nerves. _All in good time, Maysilee, all in good time…. You'll set a snare tonight, just as a test. Perhaps a rabbit will wander into it…._

The beef jerky also poses another problem. It's greasy and dry, dry, dry, which will no doubt only parch me faster. Follow what Brutus said – I have to find a source of water, and quickly.

A tinkling of chimes makes me glance up. A parachute is coming to rest in a low-hanging branch of the pine – about six feet above my head. A gift from a sponsor! Grunting, I climb up to the gift, hand over hand, and tear it loose, crashing back to the earth.

I land hard on my back, briefly knocking the wind out of me. When I recover enough to go through the parachute, I nearly cry in relief – a water bottle! It takes all of my self-control not to gulp it all down right then and there. Instead, I unscrew the cap, taking a conservative sip, before replacing the lid and placing it almost lovingly into my backpack. Like the beef jerky, I'm going to make this water last as long as I can. Raising my eyes to the sky, I toast Brutus by blowing a kiss. "Thank you," I whisper. No matter what angst happened between us, if I ever get out alive, I'll gladly give him the biggest shag of his life just for this gift alone!

I have enough to keep me going for now, but I don't trust my self-control. I may have water, but with every sip I take, I'll keep doing so until one day, the bottle will be empty, no matter how frugal I think I'm being. I decide to scout around and see if I can't find a more natural water source to supplement. I search high and low for a few hours. No stream or river appears. Pausing to rest, I open my pack again and nibble off half a wad of the beef jerky for an early supper. Around me, the shadows from what little sunlight makes it down this far grow steadily longer.

Thin beams of moonlight soon replace those of sunlight, and the anthem begins to play. Through a particularly wide gap in the canopy, I get a clear view of the dead tributes' faces as they appear in the sky.

The first to appear is the short and stout Career boy from District 2, the one I murdered – _murdered_. I feel a twinge of guilt go through me, and before I can stop myself, I throw up into the dirt.

Wiping my mouth, I lift my head up just in time to see all four of the pre-teens from District 3 have been wiped out.

The next face is a surprise – one of the large eighteen-year-old boys from Four. Wow. I wonder who got the drop on him? Two of the kids from Five – a littler boy and girl…. I guess the sly one from their district made it. Three of the kids from Six. One apiece from Districts 8, 9 and 10. Both girls and one of the boys from 11.

Wait….. did I count right? Oh, no…. oh, no….

When Gilla's face appears – the eighteenth and final one of the day – I collapse in tears, sheer regret coursing through me.

I should have gone back. I should have found her and taken her with me. I even made a promise to her that I would, and I broke it. All I can hope for now is that she went quickly, and without too much pain.

I sit heavily against a tree, and think over what the Gamemakers have told us. For myself, I learned just as much from knowing who lives as who's dead. Haymitch and Beech both made it out alive. The feat is impressive especially for the latter, given his mediocre training score that he was so upset about. But Beech is strongly built, blessed with intimidating muscle. It makes me wonder: was he the one to take out the large boy from District 4? If so, I would have to applaud him. Or congratulate him, if I ever see him again.

That's the most remarkable thing about this whole Bloodbath: not one, but two Careers have been taken off the board. It is exceedingly rare enough to see one of the Career Pack fall at the start of the Games, but for _two_ of them….? Regardless, the dozen-strong Career pack – special for this year's Quell – has been whittled down to ten. I don't know how much of a dent I made by killing the smaller boy from 2. What was he even _doing_ in this arena anyway? I've heard rumors that tributes from 2 are handpicked by their trainers at their Academy, after rigorous testing. Usually, these tributes have to still stake their claim for an arena spot by volunteering at the Reaping. Was the boy I killed naturally Reaped as anyone would be, but a handpicked, likely older boy failed to volunteer in his place? I try to think back to the recap of the Reaping in 2 we watched on the train, but I can't remember. Brutus could tell me how the whole process works, should I ever have the chance to ask him.

The sounds of the night are coming out the woodwork now – the hoots of an owl. The chittering of cicadas. Drawing my light jacket around myself, while keeping a strong grip on my two staffs (the naginata in my dominant left), I curl into the base of my tree and will myself to settle down to sleep.

Just before I drift off into the subconscious, I hear the sharp blast of a cannon.


	7. Feel It Burn Me

**Chapter 7: Feel It Burn Me**

Another cannon blast wakes me at what I judge to be the rough equivalent of first light, effectively bookending a dreamless slumber. Preparing to de-camp as I gather my things, I curse myself for being careless enough as to sleep on the ground all night. Any tribute could have come across me at any time and slit my throat. From now on, I'll be much better served burrowing up in the trees for the night – they're not that difficult to climb, and I already know how from retrieving my parachute yesterday.

A grateful relief washes through me as I remember to take another tiny sip of the precious liquid before I begin hiking. I study the bottle: only about 1/16th of its volume has been consumed; I still have plenty left. I'm touched that Brutus worked to get me water so quickly…. although, now that I think about it, it casts his final instructions to us on the rooftop in a way that doesn't make any sense. He told us to _find_ water; he never gave any guarantees that he would just hand it to us. If there's one thing I've learned about my mentor, it's that he isn't going to hold our hands throughout the process. His was a tough-love kind of mentorship, even towards poor Gilla – a pang goes through me as I think about my fallen friend.

The question, however, still remains: why would Brutus just give me water when he somehow knows that I could just find it myself? I resolve once again to hunt for a natural source of water, before the reservoir I do have runs dry.

Also, I may not be desperately thirsty at present, but I am hungry. I haven't eaten anything except a tiny wad of beef jerky since yesterday morning. I almost dive in my pack to chew on another wad, but refrain, despite the growling of my stomach. A wad of jerky will dry out my throat, compelling me to drink from my bottle again – if I want my supplies of sustenance to last, I'm going to have to abstain, fast when and where I can afford to, so I can really go the distance. I resolve to skip breakfast today.

The hunger pangs I feel remind me, though, that I also need to find a more consistent food source too. I kick myself for forgetting to set any snares last night. I decide to set a basic one at the base of this tree, go out in search of freshwater sources, then circle back in about an hour. Committing myself to a singular direction, and counting my paces, I set off.

As I walk, I have plenty of time to think, although I am conscientious enough to keep one eye out for any tributes nearby in the woods, my naginata unsheathed and at the ready. Eighteen cannon blasts yesterday… followed by one just as I was nodding off last night, and another that woke me up this morning. Unless I slept through any more during the night, that means twenty kids so far lie dead. I never thought I'd outlast one tribute (but I did, and he died at my hand), let alone twenty. That's when I realize: the small Career boy from District 2 was not only my first kill, but also the first kill of the Games. My stomach growls again, but not from hunger this time. It takes much effort to not give away the disgust on my face. Tributes aren't supposed to be disgusted by the unspeakable things they do – not if they want to win. The Careers commit murder without showing any emotion all the time. And besides, there are cameras everywhere. I don't want an involuntary facial expression to be misconstrued (or even accurately construed) and put off sponsors, like the one who clearly intervened to send me that bottle of water.

Meanwhile, my second search for more water proves to be just as fruitless as the first. Halting and performing an about-face, I retrace my steps back to the tree. Though I pursed doggedly a single direction, I still fear ending up lost anyway, but luckily, I find my tree with the snare again.

The trap is just as I left it, taut and empty. I frown, trying not to despair. Breathe: in, out. Stay calm. In all my years watching the Games, there have always been elements of the arena that are… unnatural. This year's arena has certainly given off that vibe, for how much I felt that I have been transported into a strange kind of paradise. Is it possible that a forest devoid of any natural wildlife is but one of the many twists the Gamemakers surely have in store? How can anyone eat if there's nothing to hunt?

I stab the blade of my naginata down into the dirt and kneel next to it, continuing to ponder. Is it possible that the only source of food in this arena is what comes out of the backpacks, like the beef jerky I found? Do I really want to risk circling back to the Cornucopia – and almost assuredly get drawn into battle with a Career Pack ten kids strong – just in the hopes that I can steal a backpack and escape with my life? I can't very well make The Run every time I need to have a decent meal. Even if I was lucky enough to make it out once without being drawn into battle, it's almost guaranteed I wouldn't get so lucky in tempting fate a second time. Luck eventually runs out for most people, and for me, that would be mean death.

I start as inspiration strikes me: the plants! From the time I spent at the edible plant station, I know that there are plants that are safe to eat. That can give me protein, equivalents of veggie supplements, among other benefits. And being the best friend of Belle Foley for more than a decade has taught me the power of living off the land – she and her parents harvest herbs all the time to use in their remedies in the apothecary shop. I've picked up quite a few tips just from watching Belle work, healing injured miners.

With renewed vigor, I rise out of my crouch, scanning the landscape for any kind of foliage. For leaves that look edible. I lift my eyes to the sky, to the pine above me. Thick, green leaves grow. I could climb up, pluck some leaves from the branches and munch off those. Complemented with the beef jerky, it might even make a somewhat nutritious meal…

Before I can haul myself up into the tree's limbs, however, a chattering sound makes me spin around, my naginata blade held aloft. But it is only a squirrel with almost golden fur, brushing its tiny paws along its face as it cleans its snout.

I relax in relief. And hey, the squirrel hasn't seemed to notice me yet. If I can sneak up and kill the little beast quickly, I could cook it and get some fresh meat. Treading softly, I lift my naginata, poised to strike.

What I don't expect is for the squirrel to bare its teeth at me and strike first.

I let out a shriek and slash my blade out involuntarily as the squirrel flies towards my throat. The little monster is beheaded with one, clean stroke, its tiny body landing at my feet.

Panting, my eyes dart wildly about. A tiny little voice keeps yelling at me not to panic, but I can't seem to pay it any mind. What _was_ that?

My gaze guides me upwards, so that I can now see the golden balls of fur nestling amidst the trees. Suddenly, there is a chorus of hissing, and the squirrels leap down to the composted leaves, charging.

Yelping in fear, I pelt blindly through the woods, hacking and stabbing at any squirrel that gets too close. Only one manages to land on my forearm and sinks its teeth into my skin; I scream in pain, stab it through the temple and dislodge it. The squirrel's corpse takes a chunk of my flesh with it.

Finally, I burst out of a thicket and fall to my knees, panting. Glancing back, I prepare to defend myself, but the squirrels melt back into the trees.

A sharp gasp makes me whip my head back around: a boy is across the way from me, eyes wide and petrified. He can't be any older than 15. I reach back in my memory to the interviews, trying to place this face with a district….

"District 6?" I guess. As I recall, there's still only one of theirs left.

The boy warily nods. His hands are cupped in front of his face, like he's begging. Or in the midst of some kind of prayer. The sunlight glistens off the clear and transparent water he's been slurping from the stream.

The water he's been slurping _from the stream_ …. !

I let out a happy shout and leap to my feet. A natural source of freshwater! I found it! And oddly enough, a bunch of carnivorous squirrels that can only be Gamemaker mutts drove me right to it!

"Water! Where did you find it?!" My grin is so wide, it must be nearly insane.

The boy's Adams apple wobbles in his throat as he continues to eye me warily. "I just came across it. Was about to take a sip. I'm parched."

"Well, go right on ahead," I smile. "I won't hurt you."

It's unclear whether or not he believes me, but he raises his cupped hands to his lips and slurps, keeping his wary gaze locked on me the entire time. I am just about to ask him if he wants to be allies in the next moment when –

The boy from Six suddenly gargles, his hands flying to his throat and clawing there. The blood icing in my veins, I watch with growing alarm.

"Kid….?"

I rush to the embankment of the stream, traversing the gap to the other bank in a single bound. The boy from Six is now convulsing on the ground, mouth foaming. His eyes are darting about like he's having some kind of seizure, until he focuses on me.

"Help…. me…" he glugs.

Tears prick at my eyes. This boy will be dead in a moment whether or not I do anything, but he shouldn't have to go in this kind of pain.

Raising my naginata blade in an executioner's pose, I bring it down hard on his neck. His hands, still grasped around his throat, get in the way, so that I hack off a few of his fingers in the process.

A mercy killing. I don't know if the Gamemakers will grant me or the arena credit for the kill, nor do I care at the moment. I sit down heavily besides the body of the boy, and when the cannon fires to announce his death, I choke out a sob.

He's dead…. he's dead just for taking a drink…. and I didn't even know his name….

I make the connection exactly half a second after my brain does, as I follow my gaze to take in the bubbling water of the stream – so close and yet somehow still so far away. I consider the bottle of pure water sitting in my backpack; I should have offered this boy some.

Wait a second: the bottle of _pure_ water…. The one that Brutus sent me… Just like that, and taken together with the boy's death after drinking from the stream, _and_ the carnivorous squirrels driving me here, I am able to turn my mentor's action from the previous day completely on its head.

That bottle of water wasn't a gift, or even a reward for killing the Career boy – it was a _clue_.

Add in the feeling of how unnatural this arena is, even more than usual, and everything makes sense, fitting together like a jigsaw puzzle to grant me the big picture.

The water in this arena – at least any water that flows in here naturally – is poisonous.

I gulp, my deep blue eyes scanning the trees above me. I shudder when I think about how I almost drank from this stream. How I almost ate leaves from the trees – even if I had recalled my informal tutelage from observing Belle or any lessons in the Training Center and identified those plants as being safe to eat… they probably wouldn't have been anyway.

For I have to assume that, if the arena water is poisonous, then so is _everything else_. The leaves. Even any of the meat I could have gotten off those damn squirrels – for all my luck, any attempt to cook meat over a fire and perhaps smoke the toxins out still wouldn't have done any good.

A poisonous paradise. No wonder 21 tributes have already perished and we haven't even been in here for a full day.

I turn back to the corpse of the boy. The hovercraft is probably waiting for me to move so it can take his body away. A backpack, the clasp open, sits next to him, and I dig through it.

Apparently, my luck hasn't run out just yet. There's a kit of bandages in here. I glance back to the bite wound that squirrel took to me; I nearly hurl when I see some bone. Turning my face away, I manage to wrap a tourniquet around my forearm without looking, staunching the blood flow. I hope I haven't lost too much. There's also an apple inside the pack, and a second bottle of water. Good – but I'm still going to conserve ridiculously between the two.

As I sling one backpack over my shoulder, and fasten the strap of the one I've now claimed to my belt, it dawns on me:

If everything in the arena is poisonous….then maybe…

In Hunger Games History class back in school, not much is taught about the 10th Hunger Games, or of how our very own Lucy Gray Baird won it. An entire unit is devoted to District 12's only Victor, and though it's sparse and lacking in content, what _is_ known is that poison was a key element to helping Lucy Gray win. Supposedly, she used poison as a weapon.

Maybe, since the arena has so generously offered it up, I can too.

I decide to test my theory. Finding a nearby flower with an open bud, I procure one of the darts from the set in my pack, and dip it into the nectar I find there. Carefully loading the dart into the blowpipe, coated end first, I take aim at a nearby tree, put the hollow end to my lips and blow.

THUNK.

The dart shoots out and impales itself in the trunk. I watch, waiting. For a moment, nothing happens. Then–

There is a HISSING sound as I observe the poison on the dart eat away at the trunk's bark, turning it a grayish color and eating away at the tree's health like acid.

Lowering the blowpipe from my lips, I smile triumphantly. Perfect.

In the distance, I hear two more cannons fire. BOOM. BOOM.

23 down. 25 left to play – still almost an entire arena's worth to go.

Let's do this.


	8. The Final Eight

**Chapter 8: The Final Eight**

The faces of the five dead tributes who have perished since I went to bed last night appear in the sky that evening: The remaining girl from 5. The last boy from 6 whom I watched poison himself. District 7 loses its first tributes – two of them. And a girl from 10.

I decide to camp here by the stream tonight. As one of the most unique landmarks I've encountered thus far in the arena, it can serve as a good point of reference, even if its potential as a water source has been contaminated. Besides, I may have figured out about the poison, but it's unlikely that any of the other tributes have, at least without taking the secret with them to an early grave. If anyone comes across the stream, I can hide and watch them slurp from it until they meet the same end as that boy did. Failing that, I can also swoop in and attack. I have plenty of weapons at my disposal now.

Day 3 in the arena dawns. There is still an entire arena field's-worth of tributes still out there. It is nice to know that, even in a Quarter Quell with enhanced numbers, the common principle of roughly half the competition dying within the first day or two still holds true. It must make things easier for the mentors like Brutus, too – 24, 25 tributes must be a lot easier to track than 48. So too is it in an ordinary year, when by now a dozen at most still live instead of 24.

In trying to decide what to do today, I quickly conclude that I am loath to leave the stream. I feel safe here, even as the little voice in my head warns me not to get too comfortable – Gamemakers know when you get too comfortable, and sooner or later, they'll send something along to make you…. well, _un_ comfortable.

I re-check my food supply: still two bottles of water, an apple, and the wad of beef jerky. I realize that with all the excitement of the previous day, I skipped not only breakfast, but lunch and dinner as well. I went an entire day without food. I hope it doesn't show. I know many girls in Town who buy into the Merchant belief that beauty is determined by your body image; it's not hard to identify a Merchant girl who has an eating disorder. After fasting for an entire day, I wouldn't be surprised if I've lost a pound of two. Stomach growling ravenously, I allow myself two-quarter wads of beef jerky, and a bite of the apple to counteract the greasy taste of the former. The apple gives me enough juice that I forgo another sip of water to wash it down. If I get thirsty later, I'll indulge myself.

Having had a decent meal, I finally land on a tentative decision to go hunting. Not for animals, mind you – for tributes. The Gamemakers no doubt broadcast my epiphany over poison and what I can do with it live; they'll probably be expecting me to go out and try to bring down some other kids with my weapons. I've given them two kills already, but if I want to get more parachutes, I'll have to go on the warpath. It's time to kill – I'll have to, if I want to get home. I already have, but I still need to brush aside lingering queasiness at the thought. There's no time for that now.

I set another snare by a tree on the banks of the stream, to mark my place if nothing else. I don't expect any wild animals to wander into it, and even if one does, I'll have to assume it's a mutt. What I would do with one is up for debate – letting it go would be practically an invitation for it to attack me. If I let it die while dangling, I don't know if cooking it over a fire would rid any potential poisons. And the smoke from a fire might lead other tributes to me.

I shake my head. Too many scenarios. Like I did yesterday, I commit to a single direction and begin pacing off. One, two, three…

I don't encounter anyone else as I sneak through the woods, naginata in my left in case I'm in need of a quick attack, hollow quarterstaff in my right ready to load in case stealth can be afforded. Finally, when no one appears, I give up, about-face, and return to my stream. I have a meager lunch and dinner, chipping away at the apple and beef jerky. The water is cool as it pours down my gullet. I'm careful not to imbibe too much, and studiously check the bottle's volume. About 1/8th of it is now gone.

For the first time since the start of the Games, there are no faces in the sky tonight. Feeling a little ill at ease, I put in the effort to scale a tree and lash myself to one of its branches using the sleeves from my light jacket.

I wake up next morning feeling well rested, hopping down to the ground. I check my snare – empty, just as I knew it would be. I dismantle the entire thing with a sigh. Just about half the field dying over the first two days probably has kept the Gamemakers and the audience satisfied. Maybe they're intentionally slowing it down so the remaining half of us can prove our mettle.

Even if that's so, where _is_ everybody? These woods are vast, but they can't be _that_ vast.

Pausing, I think back over the topography of the arena. Aside from these woods, there's the meadow housing the Cornucopia. The Careers are probably still laying claim to that place, unless they too have decided to fan out and hunt – that's ten.

And the only other landmark left is the mountain, but would anyone really attempt to climb that peak…?

BOOM. KABOOM. The very earth beneath me begins to shake, staggering me into the tree I just spent the night in. At first blush, I would assume that was another cannon or two, except the tone was too low and lasted too long to be a cannon. And no tribute death has been enough to make the ground itself quake.

Frowning in confusion and growing terror, I quickly scale back up my tree, hitting my sleeping branch and climbing as high as I dare. At last, my head manages to break through the canopy, giving me a pretty amazing view of the mountain to the west.

What I see in the distance nearly makes me scream.

The snowcapped peak has been blasted away, turning the mountain into a roaring, active volcano. They're a landmark more common on the strings of islands off the coast of District 4; back home in Twelve, we study them in Science class and also a little bit in our Mining Safety elective, for the principles that govern volcanoes are awfully similar to the science that explains coalfields. Plumes of fire have been known to shoot up from the depths of the earth – it's a mining hazard all too frequent; I couldn't count the number of times I've watched Belle treat miners with third, sometimes second-degree burns.

Lava is now flowing at an unnatural pace down the mountainside, and I once again tamp down a scream. I also remember from Science class that real magma moves incredibly slowly. But the Gamemakers have never been known to abide by the laws of nature or physics. Even from this safe distance, I can make out little dots bolting up and down the sheer cliff faces. The tributes look like ants from here.

Tragically, for most, there is nothing to be done for them, and I soon hear the faint cries and screams. Horrible, hideous, _human_ screams.

My eyes sting, and whether it's from the smoke wafting this direction on the wind or true emotion on my part, I can't tell. I watch helplessly for a while, until the wails begin to peter out. Sniffling, I swing down from my tree and quickly de-camp. I don't know if the lava flow will penetrate the Cornucopia meadow or this forest, but I have to get ahead of it either way. It is too late for those poor folks on the mountaintop.

I'm too shaken to be careful in counting paces, or adhering to one direction and not long after I set off, the cannons start. I count a dozen before they cease. About an hour after the end of the eruption, two more go off. It might be explained by tributes being drawn together in battle, or it could be some stragglers dying from burning alive or having their skin melted off.

Where half the field remained this morning, now there is only slightly less than a quarter. I tighten the grip on my naginata. Gamemaker traps tend to draw tributes together and into fights, and with such a huge trap going off, I wouldn't be surprised if the mere handfuls of us who remain must confine ourselves to the woods.

BOOM. Yet another cannon makes me jump out of my skin. Sweet Panem above, what is happening? Then, I hear a retort again, not even two minutes later. BOOM. Just as this reverberation is fading away, I think I hear a shout. Some grunting. From the way the voice carries, it's very close by. Turning to the left, I feather-walk forward towards a small clearing, crouching low in the large underbrush. Peering through the leaves, I see it:

A furious fight is going on between two, large boys. Around them, two more boys lie dead; from here, I can make out that one of them has clearly had his throat slashed. A slice of blood dribbles down his neck. They look like Careers….

The two remaining boys are grappling for control of a tree branch, one backing the other into a thin sapling. As the pinned boy is twisted and thrown to the ground, crawling away towards something in the grass, I recognize the flash of handsome grey eyes.

I halt a cry in the nick of time, and it turns into a soft gasp. "Haymitch," I breathe. He's reaching for something in the dirt, but the remaining Career drags him back by the ankle, raising the tree branch high to clock him over the head. My district partner's head lolls forward, out cold.

I run through possible battle plans in seconds as the Career busies himself over Haymitch, prying something from his hand. Even though the Career is facing me, he hasn't seen me; I could bull-rush him now and go for a decapitation with my naginata. I quickly dismiss this, though, even as I reach for a dart and pluck it into the nearest flower. Load it into the blowpipe and pucker my lips. The Career is grinning a blood-red smile, the sunlight catching the glint of silver and stains of crimson as he prepares to execute my….

 _No!_ , my head and my heart silently cry out, and I blow.

It's a direct hit. The force of the poisoned dart sinking right into the Career's forehead makes him stagger back a couple steps before he can draw the blade across Haymitch's throat. My district partner comes to a moment later, and no longer with anyone to hold him up, flops over like a fish into the soil.

The Career is still standing upright, frozen. In a daze, he manages to pluck the dart from his forehead and almost blithely examine it, but it's too late; the toxins will have already entered his body. Next second, he spits up blood and keels over more comically than Haymitch did.

BOOM.

Haymitch scrambles to his feet in what he thinks is a deserted clearing, staring down at the three bodies around him. He approaches the corpse of the boy I killed and wrests what must be his knife from cold, dead fingers. He is panting, winded, and the most shaken I have ever seen him. "What..? Then who….?"

Smiling softly, I stand up from my hiding place and come into the light. When Haymitch lays eyes on me, he freezes.

"Princess…?"

I nearly laugh at the pet name he gave me. Instead, all I point out is, "We'd live longer with two of us."

Even though I'm so, so incredibly happy that I've found him, I don't know if Haymitch will accept what I've floated. The last time I did him a favor, he was less than pleased with me.

This Haymitch, however, is rubbing the back of his neck almost sheepishly. He gazes into my eyes, then shifts those entrancing orbs down to the blowpipe hanging limply at my side. I can almost see the gears turning in his head as he makes the final connection.

"Guess you just proved that," he mumbles. "Allies?"

Heart hammering in my ribcage joyfully, I nod. I don't even care that we are entering a partnership at this late stage.

* * *

Haymitch and I spend the next few minutes rifling through the backpacks left behind by the dead tributes. My district partner confirms what I suspected: they were all Careers. And they all had pretty good hauls: there is bread and cheese. Two more bottles of water, and even a bottle of amber liquid, still full. Frowning in bemusement, I unscrew the cap and experimentally sniff. I don't want to accidentally drink medicine – ingesting that might be as bad as ingesting the poison. Finding the odor familiar, I take that first sip. It's like apple juice, but not quite. It's richer, cooler to the taste. It's _cider_! My family and I only ever have apple cider during the Winter Festival; I count it as one of my favorite holiday traditions.

I turn back to Haymitch and hold out the bottle to him. "Have you ever tried apple cider?" I beam at him. "It's good."

Eyes popping, he scrambles over as though I have offered him liquid gold. "Once," he babbles. "At Winter Festival time, two years ago. Daddy struck copper in the mines and was given an extra pay cut, and he bought it for us as a present." He takes a hearty gulp, and I am ready to yank it away from him when he finally lowers it from his lips. "Wow." His eyes gleam. Studying me for a moment, he passes the bottle back to me, and I set to work trying to consolidate everything from six backpacks into just two. Aside from his knife, the pack that clearly belongs to Haymitch comes with some kind of tarp, and a large orange. I weigh it in my hands.

"There were two in there at the start," I hear Haymitch explain behind me. "I ate the other. It was blood-red and citrusy. Nice and juicy."

Another delicacy that he probably didn't have growing up in the Seam.

In the backpack next to the body of the first Career – the one who had its throat slashed – I lift some kind of machine from it. There's a nozzle at one end. "What the heck is this thing?"

It's a good thing I have the nozzle facing away from me, otherwise I would have been barbecued. A plume of fire shoots out when I press the button and I drop the whole contraption, letting out a yelp. Haymitch just laughs.

"I say we take it with us, whatever it is. It's bound to be useful for something."

It also takes up the entire space of one backpack, so I have to restart consolidating the sacks: all our food and juice bottles go into one pack, while the tarp and my blowdarts go into another. I'd consolidate more, but I don't want to risk storing the tarp and darts with our foodstuffs and having them stain or spoil. The torch thingy takes up a third pack.

We move out from the clearing so that the hovercraft can take the bodies away, finding a second open space close by to camp and talk.

"What happened to you?" I ask him. "Were you on the mountain when it blew?"

His fine crown of chestnut hair snaps up to me in stunned amazement. "Is _that_ what the noise this morning was? All those cannons after?"

I nod grimly. "The mountain turned into a volcano. I heard twelve cannons go off afterwards, and then five more, including from your fight. You got the drop on those other two, huh?"

He nods, gaze distant and voice introspective. "I didn't think they would have splintered off like that," he murmurs. "Careers usually stay together as a Pack as close to the end as they can before going into melee." He lifts his eyes to mine. "Was that your first kill?"

I turn my face away as I shake my head, too ashamed to view what he will think of me. "No," I whisper softly. "My third." I feel a gentle palm on my shoulder and I shiver.

"Tell me." His voice is like soft velvet.

And so I do. I tell him about slicing that small Career at the bloodbath, and performing the mercy killing of the last boy from Six. "He was dying anyway. After drinking from the stream…."

Haymitch is on me before I can cry out for help, gripping me by the shoulders and giving me a little shake. "You found a stream?! Where, Maysilee – _where_?!"

I shake my head sadly. "I couldn't find it again," I murmur. "In the aftermath of the mountain erupting, I forgot to count my paces. And it wouldn't help anyway. The river water has been poisoned."

Haymitch sits back on his heels, gaping. I hold his gaze, nodding him along encouragingly. "And if the freshwater in the arena is poisoned…."

"…. then it stands to reason that so is everything else," Haymitch breathes. I smile at him proudly.

"Exactly," I whisper. "That's what was on my dart that dropped the last Career boy. It comes from the flowers – even the nectar is poisoned."

Haymitch grins hugely at me, chuckling, impressed. "Smart girl." I feel my cheeks and my heart warm at the praise.

On Haymitch's end, there isn't much to tell: he was one of the first tributes off his pedestal when the gong sounded, grabbing a backpack and making it to the trees before anyone else ("I think I saw you!" I interrupt. "I left around the same time!"). He has been wandering the woods over the last three days, not encountering his first fight or kills until bumping into those three Careers early this afternoon. The one thing he does mention, though, and he shows me weird, bumpy pink dots on his upper arms: the butterflies have agonizing stingers. He encountered the mutts the day before yesterday. My entire face goes white. What if the stingers are poisonous too? I quickly try and dismiss the worry: if they were, any poison would have long ago entered Haymitch's bloodstream and likely taken him by now.

"I think those stingers bring on hallucinations," Haymitch is postulating. "I could have sworn I saw my girl while falling asleep two nights ago."

I still a little at this, flashing back to the skinny little thing Haymitch had his arm around while leaving the schoolyard the morning of the Reaping. I clear my throat a little; my district partner doesn't appear to notice. "What's her name?" My voice sounds hollow.

"Indigo," Haymitch smiles. "But she hates that name; everyone calls her Digger."

I unconsciously think about someone picking their nose, and frown. Haymitch laughs, bemused.

"What?"

I shake my head too quickly. "Nothing."

Twilight has crept steadily closer as we've set up camp, and the anthem begins to play. Our clearing affords us an unencumbered view of the nighttime sky, as we watch the faces of seventeen tributes appear. I keep careful track.

Of the dead, a whopping _eight_ of them – nearly half! – are Careers. I recognize the one I took out to save Haymitch's life as the other boy from District 2. I almost send up a silent apology to Brutus, until I remember he would be pleased by me outlasting those kids. I consider delivering my apologies to Ares Valerio instead, but think better of it. That means that at least five of the Career fallen died on the mountain, or immediately thereafter. I note with a chill how Opal is not among them. The only other surviving Career is a girl from 4.

The other names seem to pass by in a blur after that, with the final boy from District 11 rounding out the day's toll.

Haymitch shakes his head. "Man…. what a disaster! I don't think the Gamemakers intended this."

I turn to look at him, as he unpacks the tarp from our one sack, unfurling it out as a bedroll. "They'll be slowing it down now. With so few left, they're going to want to see us fight tooth and nail to claim the Crown."

So few left…. I do the math in my head and gasp.

"Mitchy!" I squeal, rushing to his side and squeezing his arm. "You know what this means? We've made the Final Eight!"

He turns back to grin at me proudly, pleased that I figured it out. "Right. The Gamemakers are going to have to call a break, so those Capitol crews can get down to Twelve and interview our friends and family. You know what this also means, don't you?"

I blink. "No. What?" When he doesn't answer, I go back over who still lives in my head. "Opal. The girl from 4. The sneaky boy from 5. The boy from 8. The girl from 9. Us. And….."

We lock eyes at the same time, speaking with one voice: "Beech."


	9. What Could Be Better?

**Chapter 9: What Could Be Better?**

Dolly Evana really was right – we _are_ one of the finest batches of tributes to be brought out of District 12 in years. District 12 has made the critical Final Eight with not one, not two, but _three_ dogs in this fight. The other five districts still in the hunt are hanging by pins and needles, with one death able to wash them out of competition this year entirely.

Haymitch and I debate what our game plan is for tomorrow as we go to bed that night. I insist that we find Beech before Opal or someone else does and take him with us. Absorb him into our alliance… for now. Haymitch is hesitant, reminding me that even if we could find Beech, we don't know how the arena has affected our friend. When my district partner points to his head for emphasis, I gulp, getting his meaning. Tributes – no matter whether they die or even become Victor – have sometimes descended into madness along the way. My sense of district loyalty still thrums in me, however, as I curl up on one end of the tarp and Haymitch takes the opposite side, our backs to each other. I know one thing: the arena nights are getting cooler than they were at the start. The Gamemakers must be screwing with the temperature to test us. Even with my light jacket on, I'm shivering…. at least until I feel a second rustle of fabric settle over me, just before I nod off…

I wake up to find both light jackets cocooning me, and Haymitch leaning against one of the packs, munching on the green apple I found in the District Six boy's pack. One half of the fruit is gone, chewed down to the core. Seeing me staring at him, he sets it aside, and I nod in approval, running back through our food supply in my head: the beef jerky. Half an apple. 3 and 3/8ths bottles of water. About half a bottle of apple cider. And one bloodred orange. By Hunger Games standards, I'd call that a feast. As long as I continue to conserve carefully, and monitor Haymitch to make sure he does too, Brutus won't have to send us a parachute right away, nor would I expect him to. Thinking of Beech again, I look up to the sky, as if that's where my mentor is and say, "We're fine for now, Brutus. If you could send something to Beech, that would be a better use of your time." I hope he listens to me, as I think of our broad Seam friend. Haymitch may not agree, but I couldn't kill Beech – a fellow neighbor from Twelve – if it came down to it. I couldn't kill Haymitch, for that matter. And having already murdered five people between the two of us, I think we deserve a rest, if only for a day.

Backpacks over our shoulders, we set off. In our little alliance, Haymitch has clearly designated himself Leader, to which I don't object. He selects our course, and once he picks it, he doesn't waver. Much in the same way I did when counting paces, except that was mostly so I could retrace my steps to clear points of reference later.

I request a rest at one point, and use it to scale a sturdy oak, trying to gather our bearings. What I see upsets me. "Oh no…" The Cornucopia meadow has been completely overrun by molten lava, some of which is already starting to cool into igneous rock. Though the volcano itself appears to be no longer active, magma is still dribbling down the sheer cliff faces. The Cornucopia horn itself is but a speck in the distance.

I bite my lip. No matter whether the lava is still melted or cooled into rock, Haymitch and I can't go back to where we started the Games – we'd be burned and melted alive. Taking shelter on what's left of the mountain is out of the question for the exact same reasons. If Beech, Opal and the four others are smart, they'd steer clear of both places too. That means we're all trapped in the woods…. and vast though these woods may be, we'll encounter each other sooner or later.

I swing down to the ground, finding Haymitch leaning against the same tree. "Well?"

"We're in pretty far deep. I could barely make out the Cornucopia from here." I take a deep breath. "Haymitch, the meadow is all but gone. Lava's seeped in, and it's already cooling over. There's still lava running on the mountain as well. Everyone still left will have to be somewhere in these trees, and stay there, if they want to live."

He nods grimly. "We'll keep our weapons out at all times. If another tribute comes across us, we kill it on sight."

"Unless it's Beech?" I prompt.

He doesn't answer me for a moment. Finally, he gets out, "Depending on how much further we get... yes, unless it's Beech."

I smile in relief, boldly pecking him on the cheek. "Thank you," I croon.

He just harrumphs in response, nodding to me. "Good work up there." My radiant smile doesn't leave me for the rest of the morning. As we continue along, I'm even in a good enough mood to tentatively call out for Beech, still holding out hope that we might just stumble across him. After about three attempts at this, an annoyed glare from Haymitch makes me stop.

The sun is setting as we set up camp by a babbling brook – smaller than the stream I found. Haymitch still eyes it warily. The anthem plays, but there are no faces in the sky tonight. We decide to split the last orange amongst ourselves, Haymitch using his knife to carve it into equal slices. I notice his oddly liberal concept of sharing; how he passes more slices to me than those he saves for himself. I don't comment on it, and neither does he.

* * *

"Tell me about Digger," I murmur. Haymitch and I are actually huddled together under both of our light jackets. The chill in the night air has now turned biting. But with Haymitch's body heat pressed against mine, I don't feel it. "How…. how did you two meet?" It's a question I don't want to ask, but I have to do _something_ to calm my racing heart. Does Haymitch know how heady and terrifyingly wonderful it is to be near him, like this?

He shifts his arm against my back, and I take it as an invitation to draw in closer, settling in the crook of his shoulder, my head on his chest. It's a rather cozy, intensely intimate position, and I can safely presume that the Capitol studio executives running this show aren't appreciating me asking about some girl as I snuggle up to her boyfriend. There's a small silence before my district partner answers me.

"It was about…. eight years ago," he begins. "Lacklen and I were walking to school one day…."

"Lacklen?" I interrupt, frowning.

"My little brother," he explains.

"Ah." I settle back down against his chest, nudging him to go on.

"Out by the Slag Heap…" (his cheeks go pink at this, and mine do too – I may not be Seam, but I've heard the rumors about what Seam kids go to the Slag Heap to do), "we came across a group of big kids harassing two little girls from the Community Home. One of them was Digger. The other was Gilla, and –"

"Wait," I sit up, staring down at him as a wry smile tugs at my lips. "You knew Gilla before we were Reaped?"

"Vaguely. I only saw her that one time. She would have been about… five, I guess, same as Lacklen. Last I had heard, a Seam family who couldn't have children eventually adopted her out of the Community Home. I was eight, as was Digger. I picked up a rock and hurled it at the bullies' leader; gave him a gash right across the cheek. Then I charged them, actually driving them off. Gilla cleared out quickly, but Digger stayed and I introduced myself. We were friends for a long time after that, until, one day…. we weren't. We were…. more."

My heart cries out in pain, begging me to leave it alone. "How… how long have you two been… together?"

"Just a year," he shrugs, like it's no big deal, but I can tell it is.

I nestle against him again. "Did you… see what happened to Gilla?"

He whistles out a long breath through his teeth. "No," he rumbles with regret. "I thought I saw Beech, though, just before I ducked into the trees. I think it was him who snapped the neck of a Career boy – must have been the one from District 4 we saw in the sky the first night, if you got the other one."

I smile a little at this. "I had guessed as much." We settle down quietly for a long time after that, and I am just beginning to feel drowsy when:

"What about you?"

"Hmm?" I purr almost dreamily, a truly giddy smile still tugging at my lips. "What about me?"

"Everyone's heads turn whenever they see you and your sister walking by, but it's not like I've seen you hanging around any guy."

I crane my neck up to look him in the face, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Oh, n-no," I stammer. "I don't have a boyfriend."

Haymitch snorts. "Right."

"I _don't_!" I almost laugh, swatting his chest. "By the State, you're as bad as Brutus!"

"I mean, you can see why I don't believe you," Haymitch is grinning, grey eyes dancing like smoke with mirth. "You had Brutus all hard-up from the moment we met him on the train."

My cheeks flush pink at the innuendo. Then a memory surfaces, and I laugh. "Re…. remember when Brutus made that crack about a…. D-District 7 lumberjack giving us a free show with his hands down his pants?" I am wheezing by now, my voice fighting to finish the story. "And… and Beech asked, if that meant everyone else was gonna be as naked as we were at the parade!" Haymitch belly laughs, his diaphragm reverberating with the rich baritone of it against my cheek.

"That was great." Somewhere far away, wherever the mentors gather, Brutus must be getting quite a ribbing from his colleagues at our expense. Serves him right.

Our laughter peters off awkwardly. Silence reigns for a beat or two before I finally blurt out an admission:

"I've had my first kiss." He tilts his head down to look at me, my blue eyes shimmering like sapphires in the moonlight. "A Reaping Kiss. Danny Mellark. He kissed me."

His eyebrows nearly shoot up into his hairline. "But he's got a girlfriend! The apothecary's girl – what's her name?... Belle!"

I nod. "Yeah. My best friend. We kissed right in front of her too."

Haymitch now looks gobsmacked, so I just shrugged. "She wasn't bothered by it. Danny caught me by surprise, and well… it was sweet. He was trying to protect me."

Haymitch doesn't say anything for a moment. At last, he forces out, "My girl gave me a Reaping Kiss, too, you know. Kissed Lacklen too – he seemed to enjoy it far too much, the smug bastard." I giggle into my hands. My district partner sighs heavily. "For all the fat lot of good it did any of us. The Reaping Kiss protected my brother and Digger. It didn't protect me…." He peers down at me again. "Or you."

I smile brightly up at him. "I wouldn't say that. Why, I'd wager those little kisses have brought us plenty of good luck so far. Maybe it'll carry… one of us through." My voice falters, and I feel the muscles in my heart twinge in pain again.

"Go to sleep," I hear Haymitch murmur against me.

I do. "Mitchy?" I yawn as my eyelids start to droop. "Promise you won't kill me?"

"I won't. I promise."

"Cross your heart?"

Just before I step over into the subconscious, I hear him sigh heavily.

"Cross my heart."


	10. Coal Between My Legs

**Chapter 10: Coal Between My Legs**

"AHHHHHH!"

BOOM.

A scream and the sound of a cannon don't quite overlap one another as both pierce the still morning air, yanking me the rest of the way out of the most peaceful sleep I've had since entering the arena… and maybe even since the Reaping. Pushing up lightly off Haymitch's chest, my frightened, azure eyes scan the woods around us, which are coated in an early morning mist. The air seems to smell too much like the dew of dawn, the scent sickeningly sweet, for it to be putrefied by the odor of death.

I feel Haymitch stir under me, his knife already in his hands, and he draws me against him almost protectively, scanning for enemies. "Who do you suppose _that_ was?" he rumbles.

"Whoever it was, they're close by," I gulp. My ears are still ringing from the echo of both sounds. Recalling the principle for measuring how far away a thunderstorm is, I know that it didn't even take a second for the scream and the cannon fire to reach my ears. Yes, whoever just died was close – very.

" _Too_ close," Haymitch hisses. "Get up, Maysie, quick!"

We de-camp as rapidly and yet as quietly as possible.

"What do you think?" I whisper to him. "Hand-to-hand combat or mutts?"

Haymitch shrugs. "No telling. But I'd rather take a chance on the latter than the former."

I nod grimly in agreement.

I'm able to remember from what direction the scream came from. Since my naginata is longer, I ask Haymitch just this once if I can take the lead. He doesn't object, and we creep along out of our clearing and through the next thicket.

About fifty paces to the east, I pull up short, clapping a hand over my mouth to stifle a scream.

Only a few strips of flesh are left clinging to the skeleton, none of which are on its face so we can't even tell who it... was.

"Oh, gods…." I sob, turning in to Haymitch's waiting chest and weeping; he rubs my back soothingly. After a time, my crying subsides, and I sniffle, summoning the bravery to look upon the poor soul again. The few strips of flesh remaining make me think of my narrow escape with the carnivorous, golden squirrels.

The bones have been picked over so cleanly, there doesn't seem to be any way to identify who this could have been. I wheel back through the Final Eight in my head: Opal, girl from 4, boy from 5, boy from 8, girl from 9, Haymitch, myself, and Beech.

Oh no… Beech….

"Oh, Mitchy, you don't think it was Beech, do you?" I stare up into my district partner's face, utterly stricken.

Haymitch doesn't answer me, staring past me to the body. Stepping out of my arms, he treads over to the remains, his footfalls heavy, crouching into a squat to examine it. Something catches his eye in the grass, and he picks it up. Pinches the thing between his thumb and forefinger. The most revolted look I've ever seen from the man comes across his face, and I nearly retch too: it's a bloody phallus.

"Well," Haymitch huffs, dropping the castrated penis back into the dirt. "That eliminates half the field." I blush crimson even though it's absolutely not an appropriate reaction in this morbid context. He's right, our Final Eight was split evenly by gender: four girls, four boys… well, three boys now. Standing up out of his crouch, Haymitch studies the bones for a moment longer, at last giving an emphatic shake of his head.

"Whoever it was, it wasn't Beech."

I feel my heart sigh in relief even as I try not to build up false hope. "How do you know?"

"Even with no meat on these bones, you can tell this skeleton is too skinny to have been him," Haymitch points out.

That would be a good way to rule out our friend… except that Haymitch is picturing Beech the way he was _before_ we entered the arena: broad, muscular, healthy and strong. After being in the arena a solid week… "I don't think it's difficult to imagine Beech has lost weight while we've been here. Hell, I've lost weight, even with all the food we've gathered! Unless Brutus is giving him carte blanche in parachutes, I highly doubt Beech or anyone else left has been eating as well as we have… except maybe the Careers."

Haymitch considers this, stroking his chin. At last, he pronounces:

"Even if you have lost weight a little, you still look fine to me."

I blink a little at the compliment, which in any other situation would be kind of strange, but in this one… is oddly adorable. My cheeks once again glow pink.

Gazing at him, I frown in bemusement, as Haymitch suddenly seems to be looking at something past me, gaze turning wild with fear. "Maysilee, behind you."

"What?" I grin at him. "What is it?"

Haymitch darts forward, knife raised. "Maysie, honey, turn around NOW!"

I spin, the blade of my naginata flashing.

Even as I still catch her in the stomach, drawing blood, the wild-eyed girl keeps coming, managing to knock me to the ground. The bamboo hilt of my weapon is twisted out of my hands and we roll through the soil, punching and biting and kicking and screaming. The girl finally pins me beneath her, hands – caked with dirt – wrapped around my throat. Squeezing on my windpipe. My vision starts to grow spotty. I try to find one final thought to take with me into that good night, but my mind can't grasp one quickly enough.

Suddenly, the hands around my throat slacken and there is a wail. A cannon fires: is it mine? No, greens and blues and pinks are awash in my line of sight again. I'm still in the forest. I'm still alive.

Pushing the dead weight of the girl off me, I scramble to my feet. Backing away, I watch as Haymitch tugs his knife out of the girl's neck, panting and gawping at what he just did.

I know what he did: he saved my life. We're now even on kills, three and three, but I'm not really thinking about odds at the moment.

With a strangled gasp of relief, I launch myself at my district partner, fling my arms about his neck and push my lips against his, kissing him full on the mouth. Haymitch freezes in my embrace for a moment until, with a groan of equal relief, his strong and massive hands steal about my waist and he pulls me closer. Eyelids drooping shut, I nearly swoon as I _moan_ again. He's kissing me back….

"Mmmm….. Hmmmm….."

My lips part, fall open with a sigh against his, allowing his tongue to push through and twine about mine. I feel my feet leave the ground momentarily, and then I'm lowered back to earth. The kiss escalates into little feverish, desperate pecks. Drawing back to catch my breath with a gasp, I roughly shrug Haymitch's light jacket off his shoulders, my fingers quickly moving on to forcefully grab for the fabric of his undershirt.

We can't seem to undress each other fast enough. My jacket is removed from across my own back without me fully remembering who removed it or how it got to be crumpled on the ground. My breasts heaving for every gulp of air, I tug my own undershirt over my head and cast it aside, revealing a simple bra underneath.

Haymitch growls and he's yanking me back to him, kissing me again, and this time we lose our balance, falling back into the flowers, me underneath him. He's straddling me, kissing my face, my breasts and when I remove my bra, he seals his mouth around one purple, straining nipple and begins to suck. I throw my head back with a _groan_ , pushing my other boob into his eager hands, and I spread my legs.

Haymitch lets out a choking noise and begins to furiously grind against me. The friction of his excitement along my thigh, my… ohhhh….. makes my knickers flood with dampness. He pushes my trekky pants and underwear down past my slim hips and I move to help him. A buckle unclips and falls away.

And then he's pushing inside me, and I whimper, tears pricking at my eyes. Though I feel something shatter within me, I pull him in deeper, rocking my pelvis against his as he slowly begins to thrust.

My breathing becomes labored, my hands are bunching up mounds of skin along his rippling shoulder blades. I feel my own body become slick with sweat. I tilt my neck back to allow Haymitch better access and he groans into my shoulder.

"Harder!" I cry softly. He grunts and obeys, slamming into me until I let out a pretty yelp, but I like it. Pressed chest-to-chest, I fall back into the flowerbeds, taking him with me, and kissing gently, we continue to make love…

Haymitch pounds into me faster, and I feel a wave begin to crest along my pink beauty.

"Mitchy, love, I'm gonna cum – oh, sweet Panem, I'm cumming, _please_ don't stop….."

I scream when he makes me cum, and I bring him with me.

* * *

I sleepily awaken a couple of hours later to find both of our jackets draped over me to cover my naked beauty, and my lover gone. Rising languidly out of the flowerbeds in which we made love, I use the jackets to cover myself while I search blindly for my clothes. I find my trekky pants with the rough fabric and tug them on, then clip my bra. I throw on the first dark undershirt and jacket I can get my hands on, realizing belatedly that these are actually Haymitch's. The undershirt smells like him, and the colored lining of his jacket is green, not orange like mine.

It's once I'm dressed that I bite my lip in concern: where _is_ he? He can't have gone too far. His knife is missing, so he must have taken it with him.

Suddenly, there is a rustling in the leaves, and I gasp, seizing my naginata and holding it aloft. There are now only five other people it could be.

Then, a voice calls out:

"You there, Princess?"

I exhale and lower my blade. Haymitch steps out of the trees; the sight of him elicits from me a goofy smile. "Hi."

Haymitch nods to me once, jaw tight and brushes past me to begin sorting the backpacks. Watching him work, I wait for him to address the elephant in the… well, the arena, but he doesn't say a word. He doesn't even look at me.

Glancing away, I notice how the shadows are stretching long across the landscape. It's evening, almost sunset; the anthem will be playing soon.

Behind me, I can still hear the rustling as Haymitch works. I can't imagine what needs sorting; we were already all packed when that girl attacked us this morning. And we kind of dropped everything in our haste when we slept together.

I turn back to my… I don't know what he is anymore, brow creased in confusion. Well, if he isn't going to bring it up, I will.

Just as I'm about to say something, however, the lighting around us seems to shift abnormally from day into night, and the anthem starts to play. Haymitch pauses in whatever busy work he created for himself to join me in looking up at the faces in the sky.

The skeleton we came across actually belonged to the boy from District 8. I nearly cry in relief knowing that Beech is still out there somewhere. The girl who attacked us and Haymitch subdued was the girl from 9. I'm not surprised by this; it would have seemed too easy for Haymitch to make that kill if it had been the girl from 4. Plus, the girl didn't have any kind of backpack – no supplies to raid. A Career, even at this late stage of the Games, would have still been stocked with _something_.

The anthem fades, replaced by the sounds of the cicadas chirping. I peer at Haymitch, his grey eyes catching the moonlight, and smile at him as flirtatiously as I can.

"So:" I work past an initially squeaky crack in my voice. "How does it feel to know you've had a Merchant girl?" Hard as it is for me to believe, I lost my virginity by tasting Seam… and damn me to hell if I didn't like it.

Haymitch doesn't answer me, slinging one of the backpacks over his shoulder. "We'd better get moving," is all he says.

I blink owlishly at him, frowning hard as I gather up my weapons and the other two packs, following behind. We've never traveled at night before. And there are still four other tributes out there. I'm not worried so much if we encounter Beech, really, but the Careers and the boy from 5 might be close by.

I frown at Haymitch's back as he pushes resolutely through the underbrush. I scan my eyes down to his feet, their heavy tread.

No, it's not my imagination: for reasons completely unfathomable to me, Haymitch has managed to have us maintain the same direction for the past three, three-and-a-half days. If he even notices that he's now wearing my shirt and jacket, he doesn't comment on it.

We're pursuing a trail when we don't even know what's at the end, if anything. And I want to know _why_.

"Mitc – Haymitch," I forgo my pet name for him halfway through. "Where are we going?"

He doesn't even turn his head, hacking at some leaves with his knife; the silvery blade has an ethereal glow to it from the light of the moon. "Come on. We've got to keep going."

Scrunching my nose up tight, I elect to halt and lean against a tree. It takes him a second to hear my silence, to hear that I'm not following him and he turns to peer at me.

I merely shrug, folding my arms. "I'm not going any further without a straight answer."

Haymitch scowls at me for the first time in who-knows-how-long and stalks closer. "Is this about…?" He doesn't finish the sentence. I stare squarely back at him.

"No," I say coolly. "On that matter, you've made it very clear that you think our being together was a mistake. And I can't say I blame you: after all, you have a girlfriend waiting." He doesn't confirm what I've deduced, but he doesn't deny it either. He doesn't have to: his silence has said it all. I tilt my head, studying him, satisfied when I see him shrink back a little. He's been caught – I still don't entirely know what for, but I've caught him. "So, I'll ask again: where are we going?"

He huffs out a long, annoyed breath. "Because it has to end somewhere, right? The arena can't go on forever."

My lashes blink as fast as a hummingbird's, surprised. I hadn't given any thought to the idea that the arena was an enclosed space. Finite. But it would be, wouldn't it? My heart constricts with fear, even as Haymitch turns away, when I realize: is he trying to escape?

I resume following him, worrying my lip between my teeth and trying to cast aside how it felt to have Haymitch's bottom lip between my own. "What do you expect to find?"

"I don't know," he shrugs. "Maybe something we can use."


	11. If, Then

**Chapter 11: If, Then**

We hear another cannon during the night. Though they have decreased in frequency as the number of tributes has begun to dwindle, I don't even jump at the sound anymore. Though I still hope that Beech has lived to fight another day.

Just as dawn breaks the next morning, Haymitch and I come upon a thick, towering hedge, which seems to span for miles in either direction.

Stepping right up against it, Haymitch peers at it, then appears to reach towards the think coils of leaves before thinking better of it. I am relieved he caught himself in time; we can never forget that everything in this arena is still poisonous.

"These brambles… they're too thick. And it's not like we can climb over – we'll get pierced by thorns and probably drop dead of the poison that would seep in, if blood loss didn't take us first."

"Why don't you toss me over to the other side?" When he glances back at me, perplexed, I shrug, granting him a small smile. "You did say I've lost a bit of weight." My cheeks flush. "I'm light, easy to carry."

Haymitch can't help it – he smirks too, even lets out a little chuckle, though he shakes his head.

"Even if I did, how could I follow you safely? Or you get back over to me?"

I make a sweep of the hedge again, hissing through my clenched underbite, stumped. "Maybe… this is where it ends," I shrug.

"Naw…" Haymitch is shaking his head. "No way. The Capitol has way too good technology for them to border an arena with some stupid hedge!"

"Oh, indeed," I grin back. "It would be an insult to all their design sensibilities… unless, of course, the gardener has Antonia's instincts." I imagine the audience is getting a great chuckle out of this. I shift one strap of the backpack I'm carrying off my shoulders, wincing at how it weighs down on me.

That's when I get an idea.

"Hey! You know that weird contraption we got from the Careers?"

Haymitch blinks. "Yeah. What about it?"

I swing the backpack the rest of the way off my shoulders and to the ground, grunting as I lift the machine out of the pack that it barely fits in. "It spits fire. Maybe we can _burn_ the hedge away."

Haymitch's eyes light up. "We'd have to make it a controlled burn," he cautions. "If we lose command over the blaze, the whole forest could go up! We're tributes, not Gamemakers." He is smirking devilishly, and I grin back at him.

"What, you think I'm not careful?"

I don't quite catch what he mutters in response, but it's something about 'yesterday.' I feel my cunt clinch, but will the urges away.

The torch-thing has straps to go across your back (which makes me bemoan why we've even been carrying the thing in another backpack to begin with), with a tube that sticks out and is mounted with a trigger. Taking aim at where Haymitch points, I squeeze.

I feel the heat on my face as the plume of fire jets out at the hedge, causing it to go up. Snarling, I squeeze the trigger harder until I can see the fire is burning the leaves away, creating a hole in the foliage.

"That's enough…. Ease up, ease up!" Haymitch has to bellow it nearly in my ear over the roar, and I stop, halfway shrugging the torch off my back. Pausing, I decide to leave it on – carrying it by hand would be harder. And who knows – it would be quite the way to defend against an attacking tribute.

My naginata in one hand, my blowpipe in the other and the torch across my back, I am flat equipped as I step through, ready for anything. Haymitch follows me, his knife out and poised to strike if need be.

The trees are thinner here, and after approximately another twenty paces, we emerge onto a grassy plateau. The plain peters off about ten yards beyond that into cliffs, which give us an immaculate view of…

Jagged rocks below. Haymitch and I halt at the edge of one cliff, beyond which is a one hundred foot drop. Even if we wanted to climb down, we couldn't – there are no handholds or footholds in the rock that I can see. I glance to my left: there's another outcropping jutting out at a weird angle and overlooking ours; a walk of about thirty yards would lead us to an even steeper incline, but we'd have to climb to reach it.

"That's all there is, Haymitch." In all honesty, it's a nicer and more logical edge to the arena than some silly hedge. Regardless, there's no point in attempting to traverse any further.

Haymitch doesn't move. I side-eye him, biting my lip. "Shouldn't we go back?"

"No. Let's camp here, for now."

I acquiesce, though warily. I don't know what he thinks he's missing. Maybe it really is as simple as this is the edge of the arena, and the Gamemakers don't want us to go any further.

I sit on the rocky cliff, the naginata and blowpipe across my knees. If Haymitch insists on staying here long enough, I may not have a choice but to break off the alliance. There's only five of us left: I don't want the Top Two coming down to me and him, or even a Top Three with possibly Beech in the mix, if he still lives.

A clattering of rocks falling, followed by a strange sizzling sound, captures my attention from where I've been staring off into the distance, back the way we came. And then Haymitch whoops.

"Maysie! Maysie, you gotta watch this! I think I found something!"

"NOOOOOOOOOO!"

Just as I'm scrambling over to my district partner, a scream shatters the heavens nearby for the second time since we've been in here. Over the canopy of the trees, there is a twittering and a flock of birds takes to the air.

Even Haymitch is distracted enough from whatever he's been doing. "That's new," he mutters almost blandly, and without any further discussion, we gather our weapons and race towards the sound. My heart is in my mouth – the scream clearly sounded like a man. Is this how Beech has finally met his end…?

Haymitch and I round a bend in the plain and pull up short at the sight of a tribute, bloodied and thrashing in the grass. He is in no shape to fight or otherwise be a threat to us, and we drift closer.

One look at him, and I know it isn't Beech: it's the boy from District 5, the sneaky one who I picked out on the train as we re-watched the Reapings. His eyes are wide and frightened, the muscles in his arms twitching as blood gushes from his neck.

There is clearly no hope for him, but blinking back tears, I kneel down in the grasses and clutch his hand. After a moment, Haymitch copies me on his other side.

"We'll stay with you. I promise."

The boy looks like he's trying to say something, but he's choking and can barely get the words out.

"One…."

"Huh? What's that?" I bend my ear close to his lips.

"Girl from One….. she's a demon…. K-killed her own ally…. girl, D-district F…"

BOOM.

He's dead.

I lift my head from the dead boy's chest, letting out a shaky breath as I think over what I've just heard. The boy from 5 saw something – he saw the last two Careers go into melee early, which must explain the cannon we heard late last night.

And that means….

"Beech is still alive."

"Damn it all, Maysilee, tell -!" Haymitch stops mid-shout, absorbing what I just said. His face is the color of my Reaping dress. "What? How do you know? How does _he_ know?"

"District 5 saw Opal turn on the girl from 4, then fled into the night. He… he managed to tell me before he…" A lump is lodged in my throat for some reason.

I can't believe it. District 12 has gotten three of its tributes into the Final Four.

I try to think back to other Games I've watched. Once the Final Four is set, the fights become more drawn out, more desperate, farther apart. We've been in the arena for already eight days; it could be many more before one of us – Opal, Haymitch, Beech or I – is crowned Victor. I never thought I would ever say that I've already outlived 44 other tributes, and yet here I am. The wheels turn faster and faster in my brain.

The very first Games I ever remember watching was when Kaydilyn and I were four years old, just about to enter preschool the following fall. In the 38th Hunger Games, a boy from District 12 named Argon Plainfall survived all the way into the Top Three before falling to the eventual Victor – Wonder Spicer, the ruthless Career boy from District 1. Afterwards, on his Victory Tour, I remember sitting on my father's shoulders and watching as Wonder presented a bronze medal to Argon's family. It's one of my earliest memories. Mama told me that it's tradition for the top three tributes to place with medals, in a custom going all the way back to something called the Olympics – bronze for third place, silver for second place, gold for the Victor, in addition to the Victor's Crown.

I turn to my district partner – well, one of them anyway. "Mitchy," my voice is firm. "We have to find Beech – _now_. Before Opal does."

He's gawping at me like I've just suggested we go for another roll in the grass. "And do _what_? Band together so we can take down Opal?" His eyes widen with new horror as he realizes that's _exactly_ what I'm proposing.

"Mitchy, don't you see?" I chide gently. "If we can take Opal out of contention…. District 12 will have a Victor, guaranteed. The first one in _forty years_! And we'd make a clean sweep of the medal placings – gold, silver and bronze would all go to us!"

"Beech could be anywhere! Either of them could be!" Haymitch pauses in his ranting to take a deep, cleansing breath. "OK, let's say that we find Beech alive, take him with us and bring down Opal. Let's say we manage to do _all_ of that – what then? It's a Top Three filled with district partners, and the alliance would break – we'd have to turn on each other. Could you do it? Could you kill Beech?" His eyes soften. "Could you kill me?"

I gulp, throat dry as a bone. I consider digging out one of our water bottles or the last of the apple cider and just chugging it down, but that wouldn't be helpful. "You say that as though you know I'm going to."

"No one's predicting anything," he shakes his head firmly. "Now, answer the question, goddamnit – could you kill two people from your own district and be willing to face our people again?"

"I…. I don't know," my voice is soft. I cast my eyes down into my lap. "Should… should we break it off now?"

Haymitch sighs. "No," he decides at last. "It might be a flat-fucking insane plan, but it could give us a Victor. And do we really want a Career to win the whole Quell?"

I smile weakly, flooding with hope. "Definitely not."

The wind has started to pick up, and I look to the skies: a hovercraft is floating lazily above us, impatient. Haymitch hustles me away around the bend in the trees, and we watch as the plane takes the District 5 boy's body away.

He turns to me. "We camp here for the rest of the day. If we hear no cannons between now and the morning, we go looking for Beech. Deal?"

I smile at him warmly, balancing on my tiptoes to brush my lips softly against his. "Deal."

He doesn't reciprocate, not that I expected him to.

The girl from 4 and the boy from 5 appear in the sky that night.

* * *

Day Nine in the arena dawns humid. Haymitch and I awaken an hour or two after first light, having spelled each other to keep watch during the quiet hours. We de-camp quickly, preparing to go out and find the other two remaining tributes.

I never considered that the Gamemakers would instead bring them to us.

Just as I'm slinging the blowtorch over my shoulders, a howling noise makes both Haymitch and I snap to attention. I hold a staff in each hand, taking a defensive stance. Crashing is coming from the underbrush in the direction of the hedge. Cries, growing closer and closer….

Finally, with a burst of noise, Opal comes pelting out onto the plateau, shrieking in fear and glancing back at the panther-like mutts coming to a halt at the treeline. Snarling, the fierce creatures slink back into the forest, their task complete.

Opal is doubled over about ten yards ahead, hands on her knees, gasping and winded. She holds an axe, crusted over with dried blood, in her right palm. After a long moment, she raises her eyes to us and smiles wickedly.

"Ah…. there you are, Twelve! I've been looking all over for you." She chuckles darkly, aimlessly twirling the looped handle of the axe around on her finger. "Funny, I never thought a couple of kids from District 12 would be the last two things standing between me and a Quell Victory!"

And, hoisting the axe above her head, she lets out a battle roar and charges at me. Behind me, I can feel Haymitch moving, his knife slicing the air.

As I await my impending death, I foolishly overthink whether I should use my naginata and go for her head, or take my blowpipe and load a dart in. Except there are no poisonous flowers nearby and Opal is now ten feet from me, lifting her blade.

I do have one, clear thought, though: I've always hated it when Careers miscount.

I feel a change in the air currents to my left, as I sense a fourth figure leap from the cliff looming above us.

I never even saw it coming. Opal doesn't either.

Beech motherfucking Berryhill drops down on the final Career, holding a spear. Crashing into Opal's chest to break his fall, as she turns too late at his yell, his knees slam her down into the grass. The force of the impact causes her axe to spin out of her hand.

Beech doesn't hesitate. With a roar, he plunges the spear-tip right into Opal's heart, killing her instantly. The cannon fires. BOOM.

Haymitch is grinning from ear-to-ear next to me. "Way to go, Beech!" he hollers.

I was right: the broad Seam boy has grown painfully thinner since the last time I saw him. Though his pectorals are still broad and pronounced beneath an undershirt saturated with sweat. His teeth are bared in a snarl, his coal-ash grey eyes wild as they land on us.

And that's when I realize a couple of things: 1. District 12 has its second Victor. The heir to Lucy Gray Baird. Who that is remains up for a final decision. 2. No matter whether I live the rest of my days as a Victor or die here, now, I'll at least be getting a medal for my tenacity – the glory and honor that Brutus once spoke of. 3. This man standing before me isn't the Beech I know, for as he stalks closer, he is very prepared to kill me, his own district partner.

And 4., I realize with a jolt: I am prepared to kill him.

I unsheathe my naginata blade and charge, even as Haymitch cries out.

"Maysilee, _don't_!"

Beech sidesteps me with the gracefulness of a dancer, catching me just as I nearly pass him. My entire body leaves the ground, and the world is spinning, then I see stars.

Hitting the ground hard, I woozily get to my feet and see that Beech hurled me into a stone obelisk, about the width of a tombstone, though slightly taller. I hadn't noticed it before. It's a wonder the impact didn't break my back.

Snapping my head wildly back to our cliff, I watch Beech and Haymitch duck and weave around each other, snarling and slashing with their blades – Haymitch and his knife, Beech and his spear.

"NO!" I cry out, running at the fastest jog I can muster as sheer liquid fire shoots up my spine and I'm. Not. Dead. _Yet_ …!

I'm a dozen feet away when Beech feints, ducks a wild swing from Haymitch and plunges his spear tip into the other Seam boy's stomach.

"MITCHY!"

Haymitch stands there, swaying in shock while Beech grins an ugly sneer that sends shivers through me. Backing up, he spies Opal's axe blade lying forgotten in the grass and with a bellow, sends it flying at my ally to take off his head and finish him.

Blood and his insides spilling out of his gut, the spear still in him, Haymitch sinks to his knees before the axe gets there, ducking so that it whizzes harmlessly over his head.

Now without a weapon, Beech stands there stupidly. Bizarrely, I do too. I could rush him from behind, right now, decapitate Beech and avenge the man I love, but -

Suddenly, there is a sizzle and –

The axe reappears. The axe goddamn _reappears_ and buries itself in Beech's temple before he can scream.

Haymitch just smirks, his teeth now chillingly stained crimson. "Made you look."

BOOM.

Heart in my mouth, I dash to his side as Haymitch sways at last, catching him before he collapses to the gravel and stone. I hold him in my arms, rocking him, cradling his head in my lap, my tears falling like sweet rain onto his upturned face.

"You're OK," I sob. "You're OK…."

Haymitch weakly finds my hand and laces his fingers through them. "Go home, Maysilee."

I purse my lips to hold in another sob, shaking my head frantically. "Not without you…"

"Take the silver medal to Mom and Lacklen. Tell Indigo…. I love her."

I sob again, my eyes glassy as I dip my head and press my lips to his one last time. One last kiss. I don't give a damn if Indigo Hardy is watching. He doesn't pull away, and I breathe shakily when we break apart.

"I love you…" I choke out.

And like all those other times, Haymitch doesn't say anything, only smiles as he curls into me and grows still.

BOOM.

I throw my head to the heavens and scream. I scream and wail and wail and scream and sob, even as trumpets drown out my voice that's growing hoarse and Claudius Templesmith announces my Victory:

"Ladies and gentleman, may I present the winner of the 50th Annual Hunger Games, the Second Quarter Quell: Maysilee Donner! I give you…. the beauty from District 12!"


	12. Dead Girl Walking

**Chapter 12: Dead Girl Walking**

"Holy Hell…. Look at that scar on the X-ray! That was quite a fracture – a little more and it would have shattered her spine. How the fuck did she even manage to get back up?" _Brutus_ ….

"Because her ally was getting used by her rogue district partner. And because she's a stubborn little bitch." The other voice is just as deep, richer somehow, but I have no idea who it might belong to. "Wait…. is she? Oh, shit, she's waking up…."

I stir, my blue eyes blinking as they take in the white, clinical room around me. As my vision begins to focus, I turn my head to behold the man sitting vigil in the chair right beside my bed. He looks like he has a military crew cut. Wait…. no…. he's bald….

"Brutus…..?" My voice is nothing but a raspy croak.

My mentor and the Victor of the 48th Hunger Games just smirks. "Morning, little darling."

I don't even give a damn about the stupid nickname anymore. In fact, it's as if the proposition in the conference room a lifetime ago never happened. That's how warmly I attempt to launch myself into his burly arms. "Oh, Brutus!"

"Whoa, careful now!" A warm hand, dark in complexion, holds me back. "You're hooked up to IVs. Lunge any farther, and you'll fall right out of bed!"

I turn to the dark-skinned man seated at my other side, and immediately recognize him. Even without taking a quick glance down and noting the stump where his right hand used to be: it's Chaff, the Victor of the 45th Hunger Games, who now grants me a winning smile. He throws out a hand. "Chaff Habarti, at your service."

I gulp, my throat dry, being in the presence of demigods, and blindly reach out to shake. On second thought, I probably should have done a double-take about that hand: my own palm brushes empty air, and I squeak, only now finally glancing down at his stump.

Chaff just leans back and belly laughs before flinging out the one hand he does still have. "Gets them every time." We shake.

"Maysilee Donner," I introduce myself.

Chaff graces me with a tip of his wool cap, and I note how his 'I's are pronounced almost like 'Ay's. "I'm delighted, Miss Donner."

I gape at him, a stunned and beaming grin forcing its way across my face. "You are?"

He just chuckles again, backslapping me. "Honey, you're a Victor now. Welcome to the family." Still hardly daring to believe it, I glance to Brutus, who just nods.

I don't remember anything after hearing the trumpets and Templesmith announcing my Victory. The last thing I sensed was the wind picking up as the hovercraft came to take me, Haymitch, Beech and Opal away.

Something catches in my throat, and my vocal cords fight to dislodge the gasp as it all comes rushing back. My eyes swim, shimmering like glass.

Brutus bestows me with the most sympathetic look I've ever seen from him before lifting himself out of his seat long enough to string a triumvirate of medals around my neck. "How's this for a royal flush?"

I finger each medal one at a time: my gold one. Silver, for Haymitch. Bronze, for Beech.

Haymitch…. Beech….

It is only now that I begin to weep quietly. I'm going home. I'm actually going home to see Danny and Belle and Merle and Kaydilyn. Kaydilyn – my sweet, impossible sister…. But what else will I find when I get there?

"Will…. will the Abernathys and the Berryhills be angry at me?" I whimper, lip pouting so that I look like a small child.

"If they're smart? No," Brutus declares as close to emphatically as he can. "Because technically, you didn't kill either of them – you just outlasted them. No credit for the kill, they didn't die at your hands. Beech killed Haymitch and Haymitch killed Beech. They canceled each other out." He's almost over-explaining things to me, but I'm still hanging onto every word he says. "They might resent you for coming home in place of their loved one, but those feelings are on them, not you. Blaming you outright would be an entirely different story. Besides, it's going to be your job to deliver those medals to the families. It's quite a historic feat, actually."

"I'll say!" Chaff hoots. "First-time ever tributes all from the same district have placed!"

"And that's even without the Victor's Crown you'll be getting at your final interview with Caesar later."

The hospital door bangs open quite suddenly and a lady with flecks of gray settling in her dark hair storms into the room.

"All right, I've waited long enough. You boys have had your fun. Clear out – I want to meet my successor."

Brutus looks affronted. "Fuck off, Shutter – I'm her mentor!"

"You're also about as cute as when Woof tries to flirt with me and fails spectacularly," Cora Shutter gives a sarcastic little laugh. "OUT!" Grumbling, the two men leave, Brutus giving my hand a squeeze as he departs.

Once Chaff and Brutus are gone, Cora Shutter, Victor of the 1st Quarter Quell, graces me with a warm smile and takes the seat Chaff occupied. I feel her working around the IV in my right hand as she laces her fingers through mine. She almost feels like a grandmother, or a favorite aunt, come to pay a call.

"First of all…. Congratulations. I'm an Anybody But a Career myself, so I wanted to thank you on behalf of that one boy of yours for taking the Opal chick out. And also, I'm quite pleased the Victor turned out to be you – female power, amirite? Them boys will have to wait another quarter century to have another crack." She giggles gleefully, and I weakly smile back, mumbling a You're Welcome.

Cora shakes her head, marveling. "9 days in the arena. My Quell lasted for close to three whole weeks before I got out. And frankly, hon, you came out looking better than I did – they had to sew up my gut after my own district partner stuck me with a dirk." She pauses, glancing down at our enjoined hands, so she doesn't catch my wince. "I also wanted to thank you," she murmurs, tone soft. "You and that boy of yours for finding my tribute, Bolt."

I gape, remembering the skeleton Haymitch and I found in the woods. It's not like we did, could have done, anything for him, but… "You're welcome."

She nods tightly, and we both allow a few moments of silence to reign. At last, Cora pats my hand.

"The nurses say you'll be released tomorrow morning, and then you'll be prepped for Caesar." She rises to leave, and I just stare at her as she walks for the door.

"Ms. Shutter!"

She turns back to me, rolling her eyes. "If I had a sesterce for every time I've heard that one – keep that up, dear, and you'll be as bad as my girls back home: call me Cora."

I gulp and guiltily nod. I don't even know where I find the juevos to ask it, but I do. "Back home, I have a friend… his mother had a pal who went into your Games. Did… did you kill her? The girl from 12?"

Cora closes her eyes tightly, and I immediately regret asking the question: even though I can't see what's in her irises right now, I know she is reliving her own time in hell.

Finally, after what seems like forever, she speaks: "No."

I know in an instant that I believe her. "Thank you," I murmur meekly.

* * *

The moment I am fit enough to be released from the hospital, I am swarmed.

Antonia and the rest of my prep team sweep me away to be cleansed and beautified. My Head Stylist is weeping with grateful relief over how such beauty (for a district woman) has been spared, and every single Capitol boy will want to marry me once she's done with me. Though I won't be wearing it for the final interview, someone manages to recover my beige Reaping dress for me to wear home. I summon an attendant and ask after the ultimate fate of poor little Gilla Callan. He disappears out into the crowd pressing in on the Remake Center, scores of admirers and the media waiting to catch a glimpse of the latest Victor. The Center is sealed off like a fortress: no one gets in or out without the proper identification. Word trickles in that Brutus has been fielding calls at an almost breakneck pace. The attendant I sent on that little fact-finding errand barely makes it back into the Remake Center, needing to plea with the Peacekeepers that he was sent on an urgent mission by Maysilee Donner. It is only after the Peacekeepers buzz him into my room via telecom for my confirmation that he is allowed to pass. The attendant brings word that Gilla did indeed perish in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Interestingly, however, she was not the very first tribute to die (though I had always inherently known that the small Career I killed took that distinction); she finished 40th out of all 48 tributes. I ask if there is anything of hers I can bring back to her family: her district token (ashamedly, I cannot even remember what it was), a participation ribbon. After all, my other district partners and I all earned medals. No, the attendant replies. I pay him in sesterces and a peck on the cheek for his trouble.

Not twelve hours later, I am being given finishing touches in the basement of the Capitol Recital Hall. The key players in the District 12 team are brought up via trapdoor to the stage, and met with wild cheers: first Antonia. Then Dolly, my escort. Then Brutus. When I at last arrive, the roar that meets my ears nearly causes my eardrums to bleed.

Caesar is clothed in a loud purple from forehead to ankle, the shade seeping right into his skin even. He tells the audience the color tone is something called Advent. "Before we begin, Miss Donner, we have a surprise for you."

I assume it's the Victor's Crown, until I recall that the Victor doesn't receive the Crown until the end of the night. I am thrilled beyond words when my old trainer and friend, Proximo, is trotted out; he presents me with the naginata I used in the arena, as well as the blowpipe, with a sweeping bow. I would just as soon wish to never lay eyes on those weapons again, but since the gesture is coming from my dear friend, I accept them gushingly. It's not as though I have a choice. I'll probably mount them on my wall back home.

Then I am placed on the Victor's Throne to begin watching a three-hour condensed version of the nine days I spent in the arena. "Much more ended up on the cutting room floor than usual, folks; the original version was given an unprecedented X-rating!" Caesar giggles, sending an almost 'You Naughty, Naughty Girl!' smile in my direction. I understand immediately: nothing will be shown of Haymitch and I making love after killing the one girl from District 9. I sit back and attempt to lose myself in the show.

Absent the passionate loss of my virginity, everything is shown, from Reaping to cradling Haymitch in my arms as he slipped away. When the lights come up, tears of anguish are streaming down my cheeks. President Snow appears onstage to wild cheers, placing the Victor's Crown on my head. The pungent odor of dying roses floods my nostrils, and when Snow smiles at me, my heart stills at the predatory quality I find there.

"Miss Donner…. Congratulations. I and the Capitol so look forward to getting to know you further."

I am too repulsed to speak, and just hope I am maintaining an admirably passive face while I receive his goodwill.

Just like that, it is time for me to go home. Brutus sees Dolly and I off at the train station the next morning. "You sure you don't want me to come with you?" he asks. "I know our mentor-tribute relationship is a little unusual. And I hate to think you'll be in that Village all alone."

I smile softly, touched that he cares. "I'll be fine, Brutus…. Thank you." Wordlessly, I kiss his cheek. All is forgiven for anything strained that passed between us, especially the proposition.

He smiles: a real one. I wish Brutus would smile more; he looks much more like himself when he does. He squeezes my hand. "You need anything, you get in contact with me – day or night. Understand? Dolly will show you how to use the phone if necessary. Acclimation to a Victor's lifestyle can be a little… jarring, even for those of us who grew up relatively more well off."

I wish him goodbye, and board the train with Dolly, the train speeding us slightly southeastward and home to District 12. It takes us a full day and the better part of a second to get there. Even before we round the bend, I can hear the clamoring and cheering of my people and neighbors. Folks are standing on rooftops, straining to catch a glimpse of their first Victor in four decades.

As soon as the hydraulic doors hiss open, hands seize me and pull me into the crowd. The first people I encounter are my dear friends.

Danny Mellark picks me up and swirls me around as if I weigh nothing, while I shriek in surprise and delight. "I _knew_ you could do it! I just _knew_ you could! Oh, Maysilee… Thank the State you came home."

I throw back my head and laugh musically. "Oh, Danny…" Throwing my arms around his neck, we kiss cheeks lightly. I lean in closer to whisper in his ear. "And you can kiss me anytime you like. There really is good luck on those lips…." He belly-laughs with mirth, remembering the kisses we shared before and after my Reaping.

"She's been kissing a lot of people lately, hasn't she?" Kaydilyn sidles up to me, beaming, though the joy doesn't quite reach her eyes and her smile is too tight. With a cry, I launch myself into my sister's arms, clasping her hands. I frown when something bumpy on her right hand brushes against my palm, and I draw back, holding her manicured fingers to the light. I gasp.

"Kaydilyn Margaret Donner…. there's a very important ring on a very important finger."

Her smile is breathtaking, and genuine this time, and after a moment of silence we shriek and embrace, dancing around in a circle. Merle Undersee reaches me at last, and I hug my future brother-in-law tightly. "Oh, my stars, I'm so happy for you! When's the Toasting?"

"No definite date set yet."

"And probably not for a while," Kaydilyn says. "At least until your hoopla dies down. Of course, the idiot chose when the Berryhill kid killed the Career and not when you were announced Victor to get down on one knee!"

Merle appears sheepish, though his chest is still thrown out with pride. "I was caught up in the moment." I laugh and hug him.

And then comes the face I most wanted to see: Belle Foley approaches, smile soft, her eyes swimming with tears. My own orbs are glassy. Words fail us both; I can only let out a strangled sob before we embrace.

Glancing over her shoulder, I see a tall, dark young man with olive skin standing right behind my best friend. "And who is this?"

Belle draws back, introducing me to the stranger with a kind smile. "Maysilee, this is a new friend of ours, Glen Everdeen. Glen, my best friend and my sister, Maysilee Donner."

Glen steps forward and holds out a hand. "How do you do, Miss Donner?" His voice is a deeper bass than even Brutus's, but unlike Brutus, the tone is much more pleasing to the ear.

I can't help but stare. If falling in love with Haymitch taught me anything, it's that Seam boys can be _incredibly_ attractive. Glen Everdeen is quite striking – though his jawline is not as chiseled as Haymitch's was, the symmetry in his face is quite remarkable. Coal-ash gray eyes, as all Seamers tend to have. Chestnut bangs that hang down into his piercing stare. There is something intensely solemn about the man that is frankly… magnetic.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch my best friend also studying Glen in a way that I can't quite interpret. "When you and Haymitch allied," she explains to me in a breathless rush. "Many of the Seamers were deeply upset. They weren't sure Haymitch should trust you at first. But then Glen crossed over to our side of the Square as we were watching and expressed support for your alliance. He was one of the few Seamers to do so." She turns back to the Seam boy, eyes shining with respect. "It was _really_ brave."

I nod to him deferentially. "Well… thank you. I appreciate it."

"Of course, Miss Donner."

"Oh, Maysilee, please."

Smiling a broad grin filled with sparkling teeth, Glen shakes his head. "Obliged, ma'am, but I must decline. We have a certain way of addressing Victors round these here parts, whether one of our own, or just passing through. My Grandmammy knew Lucy Gray Baird, they were cousins, and though she didn't stay for long after coming home from the arena, everyone who knew her called her Miss Baird."

I can't help but smile back. Glen is quite charming. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Glen," I express sincerely, spying two more of my loved ones approaching over his shoulder. "Excuse me."

And then I am launching myself with an emotional cry into my parents' arms. "Mama! Daddy!"

Mama clings to me tight and breaks down completely, her smile tired but so incredibly grateful and relieved. Daddy is also grinning, but like before with Kaydilyn, there is something strained about it. And in his eyes, usually so warm and kind, I detect the opposite of the pride I expected to find that his eldest daughter (by one minute) managed to come home alive from a field worth two arenas. Instead, I see a flash of…. disappointment?

My gut clenches, but I decide to dismiss my uneasiness: whatever it is, Daddy and I will talk about it. If he is upset with me that I had to kill people to come home to him… I will try to explain it to him as best I can. Although I'm still having a devil of a time trying to rationalize it to myself.

Beyond my parents, some Peacekeepers are pushing two small families forward. I recognize them immediately: the Berryhills – his mother and father and four younger brothers; and the Callans – mourning their only child.

I approach the Berryhills first, and remember where I've seen the patriarch before: Lloyd Berryhill is the district woodcutter. He's provided firewood many a winter to Merchant businesses, including my family's candy shop. Lloyd is staring me down like I am the devil incarnate, and I will myself to be brave as I present to him the bronze medal on behalf of his eldest son.

"Beech was very brave." That's all I can think to say.

Lloyd snatches the medal from my hands without a word, and I cannot help but cringe. Maybe it would have been better to just wait until my Victory Tour to meet with them. Even though I didn't kill Beech, I still rushed him with the intent to kill, in self-defense. I quickly move on to Mr. and Mrs. Callan, and an even bigger lump forms in my throat. But Mrs. Callan just grants me the warmest smile that I don't deserve – I broke a promise to her daughter! – and wraps me in a hug.

"I know you were kind to my girl in her last days. I forgive you. Go in peace." It takes all I have not to break down right then and there.

That's when it dawns on me: I should be meeting and grieving with _three_ families, not just two. Scanning the crowd of faces, I finally spy one wearing a Peacekeeper's helmet and flag him down.

"Excuse me, Officer, but where are the Abernathys?"

The Peacekeeper nods to me deferentially. "Mrs. Abernathy was judged to be in too frail an emotional state to attend the festivities." If I were paying better attention, I would see that something about this explanation doesn't smell right. But I press on obliviously.

"I have an urgent delivery for Mrs. Abernathy that I must take to her directly. Could you point me towards her house?"

The Peacekeeper worries his bottom lip, eyes shifting, before he finally sighs. "Very well. I'll send a courier ahead to collect the Abernathys' address from the Justice Building, if you'll just wait here for a few more minutes. Enjoy your public."

I nod to him gratefully. "Much obliged, Officer."

* * *

I glance down at the tiny slip of paper in my hand, then back up at the dilapidated, farmhouse-style structure before me. The "Abernathy estate," as the courier referred to it upon making the delivery to me at the train station, is overgrown with weeds about as tall as the meadow grasses in which Haymitch and I started the Games. The entire left side of the wrap-around front porch has partially caved in, though thankfully, this doesn't impede me lifting up my skirts as I mount the steps.

_I'm in your yard, I'm a dead girl walking…_

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I raise my fist to the splintered wood of the front door (halfway off its hinges) and knock. After a moment, a woman with lines already set into her face opens the door a crack. When she registers who it is, she flings the door open the rest of the way so violently that I fear the last of its hinges will tear away. The woman stares at me in open-mouthed shock, her Seam-grey eyes quickly cooling into some terrifying land between indifference and resentment.

Maybe the Officer was right…. She doesn't look to be in an emotional state to receive anyone… I gulp, even as I gaze at her.

Haymitch told me once that he inherited his mother's looks and his daddy's mouth. I had no idea how right he was. Looking at Rhona Abernathy (that's her name on the paper) is like looking at her eldest son in a dress.

"Mrs. Abernathy…. Um…. My name is Maysilee Donner, and…"

"I know who you are, girl," she cuts me off coolly. I feel myself start to sweat. This was a really, _really_ bad idea. Lloyd Berryhill was practically a teddy bear compared to this. So it is to my immense surprise that the Abernathy matriarch stands aside. "Would you like to come in?"

Swallowing hard again, I nod and step past her into the house. The place is falling down just as much on the inside as it is on the outside. An armoire with a gaping hole in the second drawer from the top is pushed against the far left wall. A meager stove is opposite this. A table with three normal legs and an un-sanded plank of wood just long enough to serve as a fourth is in the center. Rhona Abernathy rounds to the stove, her back to me, and begins busying herself with a kettle of tea.

Fanning out my Reaping skirts, I lower myself into a chair, taking the scene in. So this is where my first love grew up… In all the admittedly brief time that I knew him, Haymitch never once mentioned to me that he was _this_ poor. Not that all Seamers aren't poor, but I should have foreseen that even within the lower class, there would be those better and worse off.

Two picture frames are propped on the armoire behind me. The one to the right catches my eye. It is a picture of Haymitch and a smaller boy who I just know is his little brother, Lacklen. The picture has to have been recent, for there is the cocksure smirk I fell in love with.

_And I know, I know it's cause you're beautiful. You say you're numb inside, but I can't agree…_

There is a rustling as Rhona heaves herself into the chair directly opposite me. Her hands are gnarled, steepled, and arthritic as they clutch at her teacup. She is struggling to carefully lift the kettle of tea to pass it to me, and I reach across to take it and help her. I pour myself a cup, the scent warm and wafting as it reaches my nostrils. I catch a hint of mint leaves.

"Sugar?" Rhona rasps out.

I smile politely. "Thanks," I murmur, voice soft.

"No cream, I'm afraid." This is followed by a hacking cough, so debilitating that I wince. I wasn't aware that Haymitch's mother was so sick… Recovering at last, she clears her throat.

"Haymitch aimed to win so that the Victor's purse could go towards the finer drugs at the Apothecary shop. I understand your best friend is his only daughter?"

I nod, my azure eyes rapidly becoming pained. Oh, Haymitch…. why didn't you tell me any of this? Tears slip down my cheeks.

"I'm sorry," I gasp out. "If I had known that was his plan, I… I would have gladly laid down my life so he could come home…"

"Don't lie to me, girl child," Rhona snaps, which only makes me cry harder. I clutch at her one free hand – so impossibly cold – and she flinches, but doesn't pull away.

"It's true!" And I feel such hatred for Beech. Hatred for myself… if I had moved faster, I might have been able to take out Beech before he got to Haymitch, then found some way to sacrifice myself. I hastily remove Haymitch's silver medal from around my neck and nudge it across the table towards his mother. She glares at it, but doesn't pick it up. I lean forward over the tabletop. "Even though you might not believe me, even though things didn't work out between us, I loved your son very much." My voice is an emotional whisper.

Rhona just stares at me for several seconds, seemingly at a loss for words. I don't know what she thinks she knows about Merchant folk. I imagine she believes all the horrible things that my neighbors believe of people like them – people like the Abernathys and the Callans and the Berryhills.

I'm still weeping quietly… until the mother of the man I loved reaches out an aged hand and strokes it along my face.

"I believe you," she gets out at last, apparently shocked at her own words. She lets out something that sounds like a chuckle. "My baby boy was a lucky man, then – winning the heart of a pretty little thing like you."

I smile at her wetly.

Just then, the door leading from the porch bangs open, and I swivel my head to take in Lacklen Abernathy striding inside. He looks to be about 13, just as I suspected, and has a comforting arm slung over the shoulders of a stick-thin girl with wiry black hair.

"Hey, Mama, we're back…" Lacklen's voice trails off mid-sentence, mouth still open to form words, but it now just stays there, unhinged in such a manner that the muscles in his jaw must be screaming in protest.

Then the girl raises her eyes to mine, and we both freeze. Played back in a sickeningly sped-up pace, I can now see Haymitch kissing me, touching my waist, my bum, my breasts…. Thrusting deep inside me as he made love to me in the forest grasses…. Only for the image to then be cast aside by another memory of mine, of gazing after my crush as he left the schoolyard, his arm slung casually over –

This girl…. Indigo… No…

"Digger," I breathe out.

Digger's one eye twitches like she has some kind of facial tic. Then, with a growl of pure rage and grief, she tries to launch herself at me. Hers is the picture of a young woman who's lost her love and is lost _in_ love, just as I am, and for a second, I think Lacklen is going to let her come at me. Rhona's youngest son rouses himself in the nick of time and holds Digger back, who is now thrashing in his vice-like embrace, snarling like a wild dog, nails clawing the air and no doubt wishing that it was my face instead.

"You _bitch_! How dare you show your face here after you slept with my husband!"

My heart nearly stops. Wait a second… _husband_?... Oh…. Oh, gods, what have I done? And with the picture of just what I did rapidly coming into focus, I feel thoroughly repulsed by myself.

"How?... When?..." I'm spluttering like a fish, backing up out of my chair even though Lacklen seems strong enough to hold her.

"Calm down, now!" Lacklen admonishes, tightening his grip on his… sister-in-law.

"We had our Toasting in the Justice Building! When we said goodbye! And you seduced him into breaking that vow!" Digger is spitting with rage.

As I recall, it takes two to tango, and in the heat of the moment, neither Haymitch nor I could really be credited with making the first move. Well, actually, I could – I was the one who initiated the kiss….

Wracked with guilt, the tears now streaming down my cheeks, I whimper while addressing Lacklen, "I'm so sorry for your loss. I…. I just came to deliver your brother's medal." I turn frantically to Rhona Abernathy. "Thank you…. for… for having me." And dancing around Lacklen and a still-screeching Digger, I flee off the property in tears, my ears ringing with Digger's wails, Lacklen's yelling and Rhona's admonishments.

"Indigo, stop it! Stop it, Panem damn it!"

I don't stop until I make it home.

* * *

**A/N: Song Credit: Dead Girl Walking from _Heathers_.**


	13. When You Think About Me

**Chapter 13: When You Think About Me**

I wave goodbye to our latest customer with a friendly smile as the bell tinkles behind her closing of the door. Through the panes, Mrs. Olsen's little granddaughter, only 5 years old, cranes her neck back to keep staring at me like I'm some kind of goddess. Or maybe a freak of nature, I don't know. Sighing, I shuffle around behind the counter, pausing briefly to cross through yesterday's date on the calendar at the wall.

Today is August 4th. It's been exactly one month since Reaping Day. One month since my best friend's boyfriend kissed me on Reaping morning, and I still got pulled with the man I had already fallen in love with, along with two others, into a death match. A death match from which I alone escaped. If my math is correct, it's been a mere fifteen days since I was pulled alive from the arena. I've been home for almost two weeks.

The morning after I burst into Kaydilyn's and my room and threw myself down on my bed, sobbing over the pain I brought to the Abernathys, a squad of Peacekeepers showed up at our shop (most Merchant families, including mine, live above their businesses). Within a matter of hours, they were able to shuttle most of my life and belongings out the door and up the hill across town.

District 12's Victors' Village is set high on a hill, ironically at the far end of the Seam. It's a deeply isolated place, there on the outskirts of the district – the electric fence bordering our homeland from the forest beyond is but a two-minute walk from my new front door. When we first arrived over the crest of the hill, I took in the dozen houses standing around me in awe. Six mansions with pre-manicured lawns bordered either side, an ornate stone fountain in the middle. Of the twelve spacious homes, only one has ever been occupied…. until now.

But when I asked one of the Peacekeepers moving my things which house belonged to Lucy Gray Baird, he blinked at me with bemusement. "To be honest, Miss Donner, ma'am, the Victors' Villages as a concept had only just been decreed around the time Miss Baird won. Construction commenced after she was pulled from the arena. By the time the Village here in Twelve was completed… Miss Baird had already vanished."

A chill passed through me, even though it's the dog days of summer. "So… our Village has been completely empty, all these years? No inhabitants whatsoever?"

The Peacekeeper grins at me. "Until you."

Next summer will be my first year as a mentor. And damn it, I'm bringing a kid home alive, if for no other reason than I won't have to spend years upon years living up here, all alone.

I am shaken by my thoughts when I hear the heavy tread of my father clopping up the stairs from the shop's basement. It's where we keep a lot of the vats to first warm the liquefied candy, before hardening it in an extra-large refrigerator. Catching my eye in one aisle as he's restocking shelves, he smiles at me. "Morning, sweetie."

I smile back. "Hi, Daddy." I check the till in the cash register, sorting coin from the odd sesterce note, usually only given as payment when a Peacekeeper enters our shop. Behind me, I hear Daddy lifting the hinged section of counter to join me.

"Hey." I glance up at him with an expectant smile. Daddy is scratching the back of his neck sheepishly, and looking incredibly nervous. "While we're on a lull, I wanted to ask you about something…"

"Sure," I chirp, perching up on the counter. "What about?" Then, it hits me, and I try to pre-empt the conversation that I imagine he and I have both wanted to have. I take his large, warm hand in mine, recalling fondly how they used to slip my sister and I treats – sometimes new confectionaries that Daddy had just invented. Kaydilyn and I were always the best taste-testers.

"Daddy…." I murmur. "I know when I was in the arena…" – he flinches at the word like it's a curse – "You saw me do…. horrible things. They're things I'm not proud of, but… you don't have to worry. I'm still me. I'm still your little girl." I smile at him, though I can feel that it's weak. I don't even know if I'm buying my own line I'm selling. I murdered three people, and personally witnessed the deaths of no less than six others. Beech, Opal, the boy from 6, the boy from 5, the girl from 9, Haymitch… They will all remain with me for the rest of my days, I know.

But to my shock, Daddy shakes his head. "It isn't that, dear."

I blink owlishly at him. "Then… then what's it about?"

Daddy sighs and looks away. He's rubbing the back of his neck again, so intensely that a little bit of dandruff flakes off and floats down to join the dust at our feet. "I wish your Mama were having this conversation; she was young once too. And boys, 'specially at your age, can be quite tempting, even Seam ones…"

My eyes widen in dawning comprehension. Oh no…..

Daddy's blue eyes – so much like mine – trap me in their gaze at last. "Your mother and I were very disappointed at what transpired between you and the Abernathy boy. I thought we raised you better than that, Maysilee! Certainly, you've always seemed to be more cautious about…. sexual relations than your sister – not that Merle Undersee isn't a fine, upstanding boy; he's all I could have hoped for for Kaydilyn, and what I still hope for you…" He shakes his head to clear his rambling. "But to willingly lie with a Seam boy, and do it on national television….."

"Do you think I planned it?" I blast out, and Daddy's voice trails off, a little in shock. "Haymitch had just saved my life, and…"

"I don't care if he had gotten down on his hands and knees and proposed marriage right then and there!" Daddy thunders, his face rapidly turning red, and then purple. "He took advantage of my daughter – my _daughter_! My little Maysie Bird!" Tears prick at his eyes. "Why did you let him? Was it pity, was that it?"

I gawk at my father in abject disbelief. "What Games were _you_ watching?" I gasp, and were it not for the heatedness of the conversation, the rhetorical question would make me laugh. "As I recall, I kissed him first!" Daddy reels back in horror slightly, as if this is news to him. Perhaps he repressed that little bit of information.

"Because he saved your life? So you thought you'd open your goddamn knees for him?"

I let out a tiny gasp of horror at his vulgarity. Daddy never swears – never. And I've certainly never seen him this angry, at least not with me. Kaydilyn's antics have required him to come down on her, more than once, but _this_ ….

"Were you in love with him?"

I almost miss the question, but I still glower at him. "For the sake of the dead, and for Haymitch, that's none of your business…."

"Answer the goddamn question, Maysilee Katherine Donner!"

My full name gets me. I gulp, tears leaking from my irises. "Yes," I whisper helplessly. "But he already had a girlfriend – married her in secret in the Justice Building, come to find out…"

Daddy throws up his hands. "I can't believe you! Wanting, lusting after trash like that…."

I flinch, my expression contorting with rage. Getting right in his face, I hiss, "Haymitch Abernathy was just as much a man as you are! More, even!"

Daddy's eyes nearly pop. "You watch your language, young lady!" He wags a finger in my face.

"No, I won't!" I shake my head firmly. "Yes, Haymitch was Seam – who the _hell_ cares?!" (Daddy goes white). "What I said at my first interview, about how people in this district don't get along – it wasn't just some meaningless prayer for peace like we watch on those Capitol beauty pageants, Daddy! I meant it! I meant it when I advocated for Haymitch to sit for the advanced courses, and yes, part of it was because I was already falling in love, but part of it was because I knew he deserved a chance! If we hadn't been Reaped, maybe I would have confessed my feelings to him, and if it was unrequited, I would have suffered in silence, but moved on happier and better for _having_ loved him! He was a good man, Panem bless him – a little insufferable and gruff, perhaps, but smart and loyal and even kind!" Fuming in my passionate defense, I turn and undo the ties at my dress. Behind me, I hear Daddy choke.

"What…. what are you doing?"

But I don't remove my dress all the way. Just open the back so that Daddy can see the ugly red scar slashed across my spine. Not even turning around to look at him, I explain softly:

"When I woke up in the hospital…. Brutus, my mentor, said that if Beech had thrown me into that obelisk any harder, if the fracture had been an inch or two deeper… it would have severed my spine, and I would be dead." Sewing my dress back up, I turn to face him. "And if that had happened, Haymitch would probably be sitting up there in Victors' Village, not me. He may have been Seam, Daddy, but so was Beech – and they both placed runners-up in a Quarter Quell. Hell, Lucy Gray Baird was Seam, and she won it all! That deserves respect. And I will honor Haymitch and Beech and even little Gilla Callan for the rest of my life."

The tinkling of the bell signals a customer, and I quickly tie my dress back up, turning away from Daddy without waiting to gauge his reaction. A Peacekeeper officer salutes when he sees me.

"Miss Donner, ma'am, I was tasked to find you when you were discovered to not be in your residence at the Village."

I nod to him deferentially. "As you were."

"Ma'am, a change in command is taking place today. The new Deputy Head Peacekeeper and his squadron would like to make your acquaintance."

I nod. "Thank you, Captain. I'll come to the Village straightaway."

The Peacekeeper beams, holding out his arm. "May I escort you, miss?"

"Thank you. I'd be delighted," I curtsey, looping my arm through his and leaving Daddy probably still staring after me.

The Peacekeeper, whose name is Remus, chats amicably with me the whole way through the Seam and up the hill to my mansion, where a posse of Peacekeepers are waiting for me.

"She was in her family's business, Deputy Head Cray," Remus reports.

A Peacekeeper with golden hair and a beard neatly trimmed steps forward, takes my hand and kisses it. "Miss Donner, a pleasure. I am glad to meet a Victor. Your district is currently going through a regime change in terms of high command, and I wanted to meet you before beginning my new commission."

"I am happy to receive you, sir," I nod. "I only wish your new commander was here as well. Private Remus here seemed to suggest all in high command are being reassigned."

"That is correct, miss, and yes, my apologies on behalf of the new Head Peacekeeper. She is currently on assignment, could not leave the Justice Building. She hopes you understand."

Suddenly, in the distance, I can hear gasps and screams of horror going up. They seem to be coming from the direction of the Square. Breathing deeply, trying to soothe my racing heart, I turn back to Cray. "Commander… may I ask the nature of the Head Peacekeeper's assignment?"

"Just a domestic disturbance, ma'am, don't let it trouble you…."

But it is at that moment that I almost swear I feel Haymitch at my side. Intuition helps me the rest of the way.

"Stand aside, Commander." My voice has dropped several octaves, and Cray actually complies. Once he does, I am in my house in seconds, yanking my trusty naginata off the mounted display rack on the wall, then tearing back out of the house and the Village.

"Stop her! Stop her!" I hear Cray scream to his men, but my arena training kicks in and serves me well; I outstrip the entire squadron with ease and reach the other side of the Seam in ninety seconds flat. I only seem to fly faster through Town, sprinting until I reach the Square.

I hit the shadow of the Justice Building just in time to see a female Peacekeeper with flaming red hair and the Head's insignia on her breast whip off a hood from over the head of –

"LACKLEN!" I scream.

Lacklen turns at the sound of my voice, but before he can speak -

BANG. A pistol presses into his temple and fires, dropping him.

A wailing Rhona Abernathy is next, executed in a similar fashion.

My vision swims red, tunneling in on the new Head Peacekeeper, who smiles wickedly as she turns for the district fence just beyond.

My sights only widen just enough to take in a terrified Indigo…. Abernathy (neé Hardy) strapped to the chain mail before the Head Peacekeeper flips the switch.

Screams assault my ears. The smell of burning flesh inundates my nostrils. Everything is red again as I stare down the Head Peacekeeper, with her back to me, giddily watching as Digger is electrocuted alive.

Tribute… on the attack. Kill…. Kill…..

I dash forward, naginata windmilling. Over the crackling of the electricity, the Head Peacekeeper can't hear me coming. Doesn't even have time to turn around.

I draw the blade across her neck. She gargles in stunned shock, hands clasping for her throat as she falls to her knees, and then I am on top of her. I bring down my weapon again and again wildly until I can no longer feel movement beneath me.

Stepping away coolly from the Head Peacekeeper's corpse. I only note then how my throat feels raw from my own screaming that I didn't hear. Rushing to the fence, I cut the power, then race forward to extract my lover's wife from the barbed wire.

I nearly wretch onto the cobblestones, but force my eyes to witness the gruesomeness of it. A good portion of Digger's flesh has melted off, but thankfully, not on her face. Her body is still sparking and I have to leap back for a moment to avoid getting shocked myself. I manage to remove her from the fence enough to cradle her in my arms.

Incredibly, despite taking the amount of voltage she did, she is still alive, but only just. Blinking back tears, I croak out, "I am…. so sorry…."

Clarity descends on me. It was a set-up. The whole desire to meet with me in the Village was a set-up. Cray had to make sure that Remus lured me away while his boss went about murdering a dead tribute's family.

Indigo is shaking violently, but her Seam-gray eyes – the color of storm clouds – entrap me.

She is quite lovely, really. Not in a conventional sense, or at least in the way that we Merchants would describe beauty, but I can see why Haymitch would fall for her. Slowly, Digger reaches up a shaking hand and traces my lips. I wonder if she wishes to know what they feel like, these lips that were pressed against those of her dead husband.

"He talked about you," I murmured to her. "It's OK to go. Go be with him."

She nods, but barely, still gazing at me with something I never thought I'd see from her, never thought I deserved: love. "I…. forgive you…." she rasps out. A moment later, she falls limp in my arms, the storm in her eyes clearing once they no longer see.

Choking down a sob, I tenderly close Digger's eyes. A thundering of boots makes me glance up, stand. Cray and his men nearly crash into each other as they stagger to a halt, gaping at the body of their dead Commander in shock.

My blue eyes flash hard, emotionless. Without any way to make it look less deliberate, I cross over to the prone corpse of Rhona Abernathy and dig through the folds of her dress until I find what I had hoped she would have on her. My fingers close around the object, and I stuff it in my pocket; I can tell Cray notices, but he doesn't try and stop me. He doesn't, seemingly isn't able to, say anything at all. "Bury the bodies with respect. Congratulations, Commander – you've just been promoted." And with my naginata hanging limply at my side, I trudge out of the Square, across Town and the Seam, and up the hill to the Village, as a light rain begins to fall…

* * *

I don't let anyone see my tears until I am in the safety of my own mansion.

Why would the new high command in Twelve target the family of a dead, silver medalist tribute? Who gave out such orders? I imagine it might be more urgent were Haymitch here, the Victor in place of me, but even then, the logic doesn't add up.

It still doesn't add up in the days after the murder of the Abernathys, during which I am as skittish as a deer, just waiting for some other shoe to drop. Perhaps Mama and Daddy and my sister are next. The new school term begins, but I don't attend: as a Victor, I am exempt from school, unless I have an explicitly different prerogative to finish my education. Mama doesn't seem to agree with my decision to not graduate, but I don't care. I fill my days helping around in the shop. Every tinkle of the bell, I think, is a squad of Peacekeepers, ready to rip away all the ones I love too. Every day that my sister comes home from school alive and unharmed fills me with immense relief. According to her, Glen Everdeen has now joined our circle of friends – an addition that my twin makes clear she doesn't approve of – during the common lunch period. Danny Mellark doesn't seem to like it either, especially since Glen appears to get on the most famously with Belle, out of all of them.

As summer turns into fall, though, no Peacekeepers come for my family. Or the Berryhills. Or the Callans. I keep waiting for Cray to bring down charges on my head, for attacking an officer of Panem or somesuch thing, but nothing happens. The more time goes by, the more I realize that, as a Victor, I am blessed with near unlimited power within the confines of my district. I literally murdered the Head Peacekeeper in broad daylight – and I got away with it.

None of this, however, still explains why a second-place tribute's family was sentenced to death. I turn the question over and over in my mind as I putt around my empty house.

"Why did they target you, dear?" I ask Haymitch, where he is seated at my kitchen table. On my sofa. In my bed, holding me, though we don't make love. I see him everywhere, whether awake or asleep.

_Take a lot of chances with your feelings…. No one really knows what you feel…_

"Come on, Princess – think," he'll say to me. "Why do you think they would want to go after me?"

He laughs cruelly at me when I can't immediately come up with an answer. At how I can't seem to do much of anything except go into Town and perform mindless work at the family store for a few hours.

_Fixing is the only way you're dealing…. Tell your pretty head if it gets real…_

In the arena, Haymitch did something…. What did he do that would piss off the Capitol even beyond watching him die, hands brushing but still just missing the Victor's Crown….?

Finally, on a tempestuous day in late fall, after I wake up screaming from a nightmare to the patter of rain on my roof, I believe I come to something of an explanation.

It has to do with something I remember from our second-to-last day in the arena. Something I didn't fully notice and had thought was inconsequential at the time, right before we heard the District 5 boy scream.

Haymitch had been absently chucking rocks over the edge of the cliff. I distinctly heard a sizzling sound… and he was just beginning to tell me he found something when we were interrupted.

He found something…. what did he find…? I rack my brain until I'm nearly in tears. Repeatedly, I can see Opal's axe sailing _back up_ over the cliff to bury itself in Beech's skull, but I can't make the connection as to what it means. And Haymitch…. gods above, I miss Haymitch so much!

Behind me, reclining in the easy chair, Haymitch does nothing to help me work it out.

_And you… take it so slowly. And your eyes…. look so lonely…. but it's only…. When you think about me._

The sizzling sound. The axe – coming back up….

Coming back _up_ …. after Beech tossed it _down_. Almost like it… _ricocheted_ ….

And then I get it. I gasp.

The only thing that would make a weapon ricochet like that…. is a forcefield. Somewhere beneath those cliffs, at the edge of the arena, Haymitch accidentally discovered a forcefield… and then turned right around and used it as a _weapon_.

Of course. Now it's so simple. Now it all makes sense. In taking us to edge of the arena, Haymitch reached something the Gamemakers and the Capitol didn't want him to reach, found something they didn't want him to find, and then used that something in a way they didn't want him to use it.

And because Haymitch didn't live long enough to see the Capitol punish him, the Capitol did it anyway to convey the message to the only other person who _is_ still living: me.

I collapse to the floor of my kitchen in tears. Oh, Haymitch, my love… I'm so sorry… Forgive me, honey, forgive me!

Dizzy and sick, I crawl towards the landline – one of the few people in the district who owns one - climb up the wall to support myself and nudge the phone off its cradle. Hands shaking, I still somehow manage to concentrate long enough to dial the correct number for the District 2 Justice Building.

"Hello, operator? I need a patch through to your district's Victors' Village. Brutus Barsetti's extension, please."

"To whom am I presently speaking?" the secretary drolls, bored.

"Maysilee Donner, District 12. I need to speak to Brutus Barsetti, _please_! It's an emergency!"

"All right, Ms. Donner, let me just transfer you…."

I hear the dial tone for an agonizing minute or two. And then his deep bass voice comes on the line.

"Hello?"

"Brutus, thank the State! I figured it out!" I am full-on weeping now.

"….. Maysilee?"

"They… they killed his family!" I sob. "Haymitch. Because he discovered a forcefield below the cliffs, didn't he?"

Brutus's silence on the other end tells me all I need to know. Another horrid thought strikes me.

"Did you know?"

"That Genius found a forcefield? Yes. That the Capitol would punish him from beyond the grave? No. You called me the day it happened, remember?"

I did, in fact. And poor Brutus has been my off-and-on counselor ever since. Frankly, he's taken the role better than I imagined he would. Other than the number of my parents' shop (one of the few Merchant businesses wealthy enough to afford a landline phone connection), his is the only other number I really know. I practically have it memorized, outside of the extension.

"I'm… I'm scared, Brutus! I see him every night in my dreams! And Beech, and Opal, and Gilla and all the rest of them! And it's just gonna keep happening, again and again, every year, just from another vantage point! Oh, what do I do? What do I do?..."

"Are there any pills that you can take? Sleeping ones, at least?" Brutus inquires. "That best friend of yours, maybe she can fork you over some Xanax or something…"

I shake my head vehemently. "I'm not going to get addicted to pills, Brutus." I've come to learn that every Victor has his/her vices – some of them healthy and productive, most of them not. A girl from District 6 who won six years ago while Kaydilyn and I were finishing Lower School got addicted to morphling. I've seen her on TV hopped up on the stuff every year since. I don't want to end up like that. The only thing I might be able to turn to is my talent…. which is just making candy, and that's decidedly of the more kid-friendly variety.

"Everything's getting scarier, Brutus! I can't do this anymore!"

"You have to," he tells me grimly. "For your district. Otherwise every other kid who comes after you is going to keep getting another out-district Victor on loan. I know you're still grieving, little darling, especially for Haymitch, but getting upset and then not taking active steps to salvage your mental health is only going to make your recovery longer and worse. Calm down!"

"I _can't_!" I wail.

"Then _try_!" he presses back. "Find some way to cope! If you're willing to stay strong and find a healthy way to do it, all the power to you. Keep making those sarsaparilla candies. Pop a few sleeping pills in moderation. Get yourself a boyfriend and break your bed in with him – sex is actually a pretty good coping mechanism…"

I blast out a strangled laugh, my face beet red. The laugh quickly turns into a sob. "If Haymitch were still here…"

"Well, he's not…"

"…. I could have him in my bed every night…." Actually, that probably couldn't, wouldn't have been the case – even if Haymitch and I could have both come home alive and even if I had tempted him again, he would never have betrayed Digger. I whimper. "But he never loved me…"

"You're a damn liar, Maysilee Donner! Haymitch _did_ care for you – and if he were here, he would tell you to go on living! That's what you have to do – you still have plenty enough people to live for, as I do. We're more fortunate than most in that way, you and I. Look: just a few more months, and you'll have to head off on the Victory Tour – and as your mentor, I'll be there with you every step of the way. Dolly, too. Just hold on till then, little darling. Just hold on till then…."

I nod shakily. "I will, Brutus, I promise."

"And hey, if sleeping around floats your boat again, my bed is always open."

I laugh again. "These calls are strictly for counseling, not phone sex," I chide him, though it lacks any bite. "Thanks, Brutus. For everything."

"Take care of yourself, kid."

I hang up.

* * *

**A/N: Song credit: When You Think About Me by Jon Rzeznik of the Goo Goo Dolls.**


	14. Pogrom

**Chapter 14: Pogrom**

I stand in my best dress by the fireplace in the living quarters of the mayoral residence, watching my twin sister and her new husband share a bit of Toasted bread and exchange their vows. I personally think it was a hurried engagement, but Kaydilyn and Merle have always complemented each other quite well. They may be a bit young also, to be married at 16, but Merle is well established, his career mapped out before him. I trust that my sister will be well taken care of.

With a beaming smile, Kaydilyn steps close to Merle and the pair embrace and kiss, eliciting cheers. Also smiling radiantly, I clap, even as I try not to become uneasy over where I am.

The living quarters of the mayoral residence were where I was held after first being Reaped almost six months ago. Where I thought I was saying goodbye to my loved ones forever. To her credit, Kaydilyn had been mortified when I gave her a gentle reminder, and even went so far as to try and change the venue. I had told her and Merle not to trouble themselves. Besides, Merle's father, the Mayor, would be officiating; it is only proper that they be wed here, inside the Justice Building. My sister and new brother-in-law will be living here, with Norman Undersee, for the time being.

Thank the State that the reception at least allows us a change of scene. Merle and Kaydilyn had expressly requested this for my sake, as a sort of compromise – besides, the after-party will be longer than the actual ceremony. It's an open-air event, right in the Square, and I can hardly wait for Mayor Norman Undersee to give the benediction so I can get out of this godforsaken room.

I must be giving my distress away a little too clearly on my face, for I feel a strong arm drape over my shoulder.

"Hey." I breathe in Danny's warmth as he nudges me. "You OK?" He's clearly also remembering what we were doing the last time we were in here.

Turning my head to gaze up into his handsome, sweet face, I smile weakly. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just a little… stuffy in here." I fan myself a little. Danny smiles softly, although I can tell he doesn't believe me. He nods towards something at the opposite side of the ceremony hall. "Can't imagine how _he_ made it onto the guest list."

I follow his gaze. Over by a small punch table, Belle Foley is chatting quietly with Glen Everdeen. I remember Kaydilyn saying something about not wanting to invite him, but Merle overruled her. Merle apparently quite likes the man, which I have to respect him for: Glen is the only Seamer in attendance.

Nursing a small tumbler of punch, my best friend laughs musically at something Glen says. I lean into Danny's side a little bit, my turn to comfort him.

"Everything…. OK?"

Danny sighs. "I don't know anymore. You haven't been around for a while." He smiles wanly. "I fear that I'm losing her to him."

I gawk, letting out a shaky little laugh. "Glen Everdeen?" I can't quite believe that. Belle and Glen only met in the summer, during my Games. I'm ready to tease Danny about his paranoia, but one look at his heartbroken and clearly jealous face as he keeps Belle and Glen in his sights, and I know it won't help.

Mayor Undersee has by now given the benediction, and the entire congregation streams out the oaken double doors of the Justice Building into the Square. Tents have been erected to house tables upon tables of food and good wine. Capitol wine – I had ordered some from the city using part of my Victors' pension, as my wedding present to Merle and my sister.

Danny is still tracking Belle with his eyes, looking crestfallen. I smile, and hold out my arms to him. "Come on. Dance with me."

He blinks, taken aback but grateful too, and sweeps me into his arms. Smiling at him gently, we lead off with a lively waltz, light on our feet, as Eli Cartwright strikes up a tune on his fiddle. Danny is a wonderful dancer, spinning me delicately, and I soon find myself laughing radiantly, forgetting my own troubles and cares.

But his mind still seems to be elsewhere, as every now and again, he can pick out Belle in the crowd like a heat-seeking missile. She is dancing with Glen. Reaching up a hand, I tenderly cup his face, turning it back to mine.

"Don't worry about it," I croon. "Focus on me… and not stepping on my feet." He gasps out a surprised laugh and dips me with no warning in retaliation, eliciting from me a startled and happy squeal. The trouble still lingers in his deep blue eyes, and for one mad second, I consider kissing him as an old joke, get him to loosen up when –

There is a sudden crash over by the chocolate fountain and sweets table, as several Peacekeeper officers overturn the spread my father and mother spent hours preparing, in addition to being the parents of the bride. Frowning, biting my lip, I hardly register Danny lifting me out of the dip as we watch Cray and a contingency of his men storm the reception hall like it's some kind of battlefield. Gasps of shock and then screams go up as several Peacekeepers shove guests out of the way. Just off my shoulder, an old woman makes a strange crossing gesture over her chest and utters a word in one of the old, forbidden languages:

"Pogrom."

Danny is wincing in both fear and barely repressed outrage. He squeezes my hands. "Stay here." I nod wordlessly, even as I can also feel myself burning up with anger. This is my punishment – for killing the deceased Head Peacekeeper all those months ago. Maybe even for coming home alive from the arena. I should have foreseen something like this! I should have brought my naginata with me, and hidden it in my garter, just in case I had to use it.

As I watch in growing horror, I see Danny approach one of Cray's men. "Hey, Officer! What is the meaning of this?!"

Danny's tone might be a little tight, but he makes no move to attack. It doesn't matter – the officer answers him by punching Danny full in the face. My dear friend gives a cry and staggers back into the sandwiches cart.

I gasp. "Danny!" Lifting up my skirts, I rush to his side, trying to help him get up. All around us, the yells and grunts pitch higher and louder, and I follow the sound: something is happening over by the DJ booth. I spot Belle getting roughly shoved into the stereo system, the officer who is pushing her laughing. Then –

He's on the ground, and Glen Everdeen is wailing his fist into the Peacekeeper's face like it's a piston. Cray, the Head Peacekeeper, is alerted to the disturbance and he dashes over, bringing the butt of his gun down hard on Glen's skull. I gasp again as Glen crumples, Cray kicking his body so that the brave Seam man rolls off. I remember my training with Proximo: a blow to the back of the head with a blunt object, even when applied without maximum force, can knock someone unconscious. Maybe even fracture their skull.

"GLEN!" Belle's cry is stricken as she races to her…. friend's side, deliberately getting in Cray's way. The Head Peacekeeper growls and swivels away, his fierce stare locking onto me. I stare him down, and even find the chutzpa to pantomime swiping at the air with an invisible naginata. The message is clear: _You may threaten my family and friends, but I'm the Victor of the 50_ _th_ _Annual Hunger Games. You're just the despot of a backwater district._

To my satisfaction, Cray is the one who blinks first. I think I catch a little bit of fear in his eyes, for he calls off the little…. pogrom (was that the word?) immediately thereafter. By this time, though, the reception has been pretty much ruined. Daddy, Norman Undersee and Eli Cartwright set about righting the tables and cleaning spilled food.

I support Danny as I help him to his feet. Aside from his right eye, which he is covering with a massive paw of a hand, he appears no worse for wear. I still ask him anyway, "Can you walk?" Perhaps he sprained something in his fall.

He nods gamely, and we trudge over towards Belle, who is doing her best to keep the head of an unconscious Glen elevated. To my ever-growing intrigue, my best friend looks to be increasingly closer to hysterics.

"I can't carry him!" she warbles. "He's too heavy!"

"Is he alive?" Danny asks, and I think only I detect a strange kind of hopefulness in his voice. I fight the urge to glower at him.

Merle and Kaydilyn have now joined us. "Calm down now, Belle. Let me… here, Mellark, help me!"

Danny starts to go forward at Merle's request, but I shake my head. "We have to make sure you haven't broken anything besides yours and my feet." Thankfully, he gets the joke, laughing.

Kaydilyn fills in for Danny, and between the three of them, she, her new husband and Belle manage to get the handsome Seam man onto his feet.

"Where can we take him?" Merle asks.

"My shop. I have the key," Belle rasps. And they hobble away. Danny and I follow a short distance behind, and when I feel my friend's hand brush my own, I don't hesitate to lace my fingers through his.

Belle unlocks her parents' shop and we all steal inside. I finally let go of Danny so he can help Merle manipulate Glen into a casket's hoist and heave him onto the front counter that Belle has rapidly cleared away.

"Kaydilyn, the pillow over by the loveseat, quick! We have to keep his head comfortable!" Belle orders. Here is where my best friend is in her element. I know she will make a remarkable Healer one day.

"Does he have a concussion?" Merle asks.

"We won't know for sure until…. he wakes up," Belle's voice falters for a moment, and she wipes at her eyes. My brow furrows; even Merle and Kaydilyn look at each other. "Merle, turn his skull to the left for me – gently! I have to look at the wound."

Merle obeys, and I get a clear look at the back of Glen's head. His head doesn't appear to be cracked open – I flash back to at least one instance while re-watching my Games when a tribute's head was burst like a melon by one of the Careers. I must make a disconcerted noise for I feel Danny's arms around me again, a question in his eyes. I nod grimly, telling him I'm fine.

From where she's been examining him, Belle comes to a similar diagnosis. "No cracks or openings in the skull. And I'm fairly certain there's been no internal bleeding – we would know if there was, even without having access to Capitol scanners."

"Coma?" Danny manages.

Belle shakes her head. "Unless something really weird happens and he takes a turn, I doubt it. He might come to feeling a little dazed, maybe not even remember the fight."

She flits about for approximately ten more minutes, stopping between every few tasks to glance at Glen's cadaver form anxiously. Finally, there is a groan as the strong Seam man begins to stir.

Belle is at his side as if by magic, brushing the chestnut bangs out of his eyes.

"B-elle….." Glen grunts.

She smiles wetly at him, tamping down a sob. "Ssssh…" she rests a finger on his lips. "You just lie still and stay quiet."

Merle hovers hesitantly over by the first row of shelves. "Is there anything else we can do?" Kaydilyn nods vigorously, her face still concerned; I can't help but be proud of her, considering she's never liked Glen very much, for reasons unexplained.

Belle shakes her head. "Go home, Merle. You and Kaydie need to have some kind of wedding night."

This cues Glen into remembering how he got here in the first place. "Hey, man," he tries lifting his head in the direction of Merle's voice. "Many happy returns."

Merle just chuckles with fondness. "Well, you're just a little devil, aren't you? Devil in a miner's helmet."

Glen smirks good-naturedly. "Shame it fell apart at the end. Cray's such a dick. I was warming up to give you my wedding present."

Kaydilyn actually giggles. "Warming up? Whatever for?"

And despite the fact that he might actually be concussed, Glen Everdeen opens his mouth and begins to sing:

_"_ _Did you ever see a lassie, a lassie, a lassie, did you ever see a lassie go this way and that? Go this way and that way, go this way and that way. Did you ever see a lassie go this way and that?"_

I recognize the tune – it's a silly children's ditty. But I've never heard it sung quite like _this_. Glen's voice is close to operatic. In all my life, I've never heard a sound so beautiful, except for maybe Haymitch's laugh.

Belle, meanwhile, has become close to catatonic. She is absolutely entranced by Glen's beautiful music. When he finishes, Glen smiles sheepishly. "I had a better one in mind, but I forgot all the words."

Merle chuckles, though he seems to be covering for a sob. There are actual tears in Kaydilyn's eyes. And Belle is still staring at Glen with sheer wonder. Tearing her gaze away, she catches sight of the black eye swelling up close to half of Danny's face, and starts, seeming to remember for the first time that he is there.

"By the State! Maysie, darling, can you help him with that? Here are some bandages and a cool cloth."

She doesn't voice it, but I can tell she needs to commandeer most of the space to heal Glen. Taking the supplies, I nod and slip a hand into Danny's.

"Why don't we get you cleaned up at the bakery? It's just across the street."

He nods, though he's still staring at Glen and Belle with an absolutely shattered expression. It's almost cruel how neither of them appears to notice. I've got to get him out of here. Letting Danny lean on me, we trudge across the street to his home. But when we get to the front door, it doesn't give way. Danny curses.

"Locked! And Dad has the key."

"Do you think they'll be back anytime soon? We can't stay out here – it's freezing!" The wintry air nips at my bare arms, and I shiver; I should have listened to Mama when she told me to bring a wrap for the reception.

Danny shrugs. "They're probably still helping Mayor Undersee clean up."

I quickly make a decision. "Come on," I tug at his arm. "We'll go to my place."

And even though it's a longer walk across Town, the whole of the Seam and up the hill, the biting cold behooves Danny and I to make great time back to my mansion in the Village. Procuring the key that Norman Undersee presented to me upon my arrival home, I let us both in.

Danny's jaw drops at the sheer expanse of my foyer. "Wow," he breathes. He notes the pile of suitcases stacked high just off the entrance hall. "This all for the Victory Tour?"

"Between all the planning for the wedding, I thought I'd pack ahead," I prattle to him, crossing into my Capitol-style kitchen to fetch the water pitcher from the fridge. "I leave on the train the day after tomorrow."

"Shame you'll miss the Winter Festival, though," Danny's voice floats over to me as I cross back, my dress swishing at my ankles, and direct him into the sitting room, onto the sofa. "Let's just hope the Peacekeepers don't crash that party, too."

I smile sadly. "It's my fault Kaydie and Merle's reception was ruined," I admit. "They can't arrest me for murdering the Head Peacekeeper who executed the Abernathys; I'm a Victor. So they had to get back at me some other way. And I wouldn't be surprised if it's my fault when they go after the Callans and the Berryhills…."

"NO!" Danny's voice, sharp and forceful, makes me sit back, blinking. I feel him grasp my shoulders. "Don't ever say it's your fault, Maysilee." The interior lighting highlights how he is blinking back tears, and his next words are strangled as he gets out, "Do you hear me?"

I nod slowly, feeling quite grateful that he is here. "Would…. Would you like something to drink?"

Danny's smirk is bitter. "Got anything strong?"

I smile weakly. "Other than water, all I've got is left-over Capitol wine. I have a date with the greengrocer tomorrow."

"A date, huh?" Danny waggles his eyebrows.

"Shut up." I swat at him, oddly flushing pink. "You know what I mean." The prudent side of me is saying this is a _really_ bad idea, but I double back to the fridge anyway, and break out the wine. I pour two flutes and sit daintily beside my friend, passing him one of the champagne glasses. "Now: let's take a look at that eye, shall we?"

Danny leaves the right side of his face open to me, and I hiss through my clenched underbite when it catches the light. A gash over his right eyebrow has crusted over with dried blood. "Sweet Panem, what a state!" Dabbing some water onto the cloth Belle gave me, I start by wiping away the encrusted blood. Danny hisses in pain, and I pause.

"I'm OK, I'm OK. Keep going."

I nod, moving the cloth with tender, smooth strokes. Every couple of minutes, we pause to sip from our flutes of wine. Before long, I am dangerously tipsy, and Danny is very, very drunk.

"You know," he half-giggles as I continue wiping away the last of the blood, absently listening. "I should have known that she was falling in love with that Everdeen. He's got everything I haven't got!"

"That's not true," I chide gently. "Two years together is not nothing; Belle wouldn't just throw that away because Glen has a beautiful voice."

Danny chuckles bitterly. "Have you ever heard the story of _The Little Mermaid_?"

I blink, befuddled. "The _what_?"

"Haymitch told it to me once. I don't know where it's from, and it certainly sounded like something that wouldn't be on the Capitol's approved reading list. Anywho, there's this prince, see, and a mermaid rescues him from drowning. He wakes up all waterlogged to her singing to him, and BAM! – falls in love instantly. Then, this evil sea witchy…" (OK, he is _definitely_ drunk, if he's using a word like _witchy_. Then again, I'm pretty sure I'm drunk too, so I really can't judge) "…. who gave her a pair of legs, steals the mermaid's voice and starts singing so that the prince falls in love with _her_. And he almost dumps the mermaid for that chick!"

I chuckle, smoothing back the golden bangs from his forehead. "How does it end?"

"They all die. Don't ask me how, I don't really remember."

I snort. "Charming."

He cocks his head, allowing me to really dab at the black eye, hoping that the water will slow the swelling. "We're not so different, you and I, Maysie," he murmurs. "We both lost someone we love to someone else. Or maybe…. someone else got to our love first, I don't know."

I swallow a lump in my throat, briefly turning away to down the last of my champagne flute – almost a third of the glass. The alcohol rushes to my brain and my vision starts to swim. By the light of the fire going in the hearth, I complete my work on Haymitch's… no, not Haymitch, Danny. But wait… _is_ it Danny?

I draw away from my friend, my big blue eyes sparkling, my lips slightly parted. Danny or whoever this is seems to transmogrify from Haymitch to Danny and back again. The man across from me seems to be having just as hard a time focusing on me too.

A giant paw of a hand brushes the long golden tresses away from my face, and I feel my heart start to hammer in my ribcage.

"Belle…." The voice of this man is husky.

I gulp. "Haymitch."

And then his lips are on mine, and my mouth is opening for him. He sucks my tongue into his mouth and twines it about his own. I've never been kissed like this – hard, desperate and sloppy yet cute – and my mouth is worked open further in a hot, messy rhythm. I take Haymitch's bottom lip in between my teeth and nibble, causing him to moan. Then he's pushing me down into the couch cushions and brazenly straddling me.

"Mmm…. Wait – Hmmm…. Wait," I manage to get out around his insistent lips. "Not here. I….. oooh….." I tilt my neck to grant him better access as he dive-bombs his lips into my collarbone. "Bed – bedroom," I pant.

He sweeps me off my feet as if I weigh nothing and carries me grandly towards the staircase. I'm barely able to provide him with coherent instructions with how frantically we're kissing. My azure eyes have drooped closed, the lashes there fluttering.

He throws me down onto the bed, and I spread my legs for him. As soon as he crawls between them, I clamp both of my powerful thighs around his middle and we begin to rock insistently.

"Uhhh….. Ugggh….. Huhhh…. Haymitch….." My breathing has become labored, shallow, and I feel large fingers roll back the hem of my dress, pushing my skirts up around my hips. Those same talented hands fumble for my panties, and I move to help him.

When he pushes into me, I groan with the impact. Feel the beauty of being filled and my head lolls back into the pillow. My arms loop about his neck, clutching at the slick ripples of his shoulder blades as he undulates above me, groaning, grunting. I cant my hips back into his in perfect time; the tiny cries being torn from my lips are like nothing I've ever heard.

"Huhhhh….. Guhhhh….. Ohhhhhh….. Ahhhh….. Mi-Mitchy, darling, I'm gonna cum…. Yes….. yes….."

My cunt clinches.

"HAYMITCH!" I scream for the rafters as I explode in a glorious orgasm.

"Fuck, Belle!" My lover above me slams into me weakly one more time, again, before he cums hard deep inside me. With a final grunt, he collapses on top of my thin frame and lies still.

I fall asleep that night stroking his golden hair, vaguely wondering why Haymitch would call Belle Foley's name, and not Digger's, while in heat with me.

* * *

I wake up the next morning with a raging hangover and with Danny Mellark lying half-naked in my bed.

With the clarity of the morning, and the night's events rushing back to me - getting drunk, tending to his wound, kissing and making love – I steal, mortified, from the bed we shared and into my bathroom, where I hide like a coward until I hear Danny waking up, fishing for his clothes. I don't emerge until I hear the front door to my mansion slam.

I fix myself a meager breakfast with the last egg in my fridge, unable to register the taste of it fried on toast. I can't believe I got drunk and slept with my dear friend. It would be worse if Danny was still with Belle, which I'm still not entirely sure of. It's bad enough that he and I kissed – twice – around the time of the Reaping.

I finally shower and dress, my thoughts a whirlpool as I try to sort out how I felt about last night. I surprise myself when I come to the conclusion that I…. _liked_ it. But is that just because I liked what the man who I thought was Haymitch was doing to me? Was the pleasure I received only in my imagination because my mind tricked me into thinking I was making love to someone else?

Still, I have to concede, Danny might be no Haymitch Abernathy, but the baker's son is a hella good kisser.

Brutus calls me with last minute details about the Tour kicking off tomorrow. He'll be taking the red-eye train from Two and arriving first thing in the morning. Dolly and my prep team have reportedly already left an hour or so ago, and will arrive by mid-afternoon tomorrow. I am brief when speaking to my mentor, hanging up quickly before I head down into Town to stock up with food from the greengrocer. It should keep well enough in the fridge while I'm away, and I check the labels of my purchases to ensure the expiration dates are spaced out far enough.

I am just ringing up at the register when I feel a warm hand clasp mine. I turn, startled, only to find that it's Danny as he drags me into a deserted aisle.

"Danny! What on earth?... What are you doing here?"

He looks to be in rough shape from the drinking last night, but clearheaded enough to tell me, "I needed to talk to you before you leave."

I shake my head, absolutely _not_ wanting to have this conversation, although he's right, we do have to clear the air at some point. "Danny, it's fine. You were wonderful, but I have to apologize for both our sakes – we both had too much to drink…."

"Can I see you again?" Danny blurts out. I blink, thrown by his eagerness. "When you get back from the Capitol, can I see you again?"

I stare at him, shaking my head, blinking back tears. "Danny, please don't ask that of me," I whimper, my heart breaking as I realize how much I care for my dear friend. "Are we really going to do this? Be each other's rebounds? Danny, it was one night!"

"And it was amazing," Danny tells me. I turn fuchsia at the praise, even as I rapidly shake my head again.

"It won't do you any good to get involved with me. If you do, we –"

His lips descend on mine, crushing them to his. My brain rapidly switches off, and I feel myself swoon against him with a _moan_ , closing my eyes and deepening the kiss. Kissing him back.

When he finally draws away, I am staring at him, awestruck – both at his nerve, and at myself for enjoying it.

"I had to do that, just once and have it mean something real," Danny murmurs. Dipping his head, he kisses me again, softer this time, and I hold it.

"Good luck on the Tour. I'll see you soon…. I love you," he whispers against me, his breath tickling my mouth.

And leaving me in that supermarket aisle, touching a hand to my kissed lips in wonder, he strides out the door, the bell tinkling in his wake.


	15. The Victory Tour

**Chapter 15: The Victory Tour**

I don't get any sleep that night after Danny and I kissed in the greengrocer's. A pounding knock (which I know all too well) wakes me just ahead of the rooster's crow. My blond hair a mess, I tug my nightgown around me as I open the door.

Brutus is on my front stoop with the biggest smile I have ever seen from him. "There's my Little Darling! My Victor!"

I rub at my bleary eyes. "Has anyone ever told you you're way too enthusiastic in the morning? And if you ever sound even remotely like my Daddy again, that…." And I point out my naginata on the wall. "…. is going in your stomach."

Brutus pouts. "C'mon, Maysie, don't be such a grump. I understand you're a bedhead right now, but that's no excuse." He swoops in to kiss my cheek lightly, lips just brushing the skin before I flinch. Like everything with Brutus and me, my mentor notices. "You all right?" he frowns, cobalt eyes probing.

I shrug flippantly. "Fine."

The ex-Career's face furrows all the more; he sees right through me, but gratefully doesn't press the point. I observe his eyes sweeping over the half-tidy sitting room, the champagne flutes from Danny's and my drinking the other night still on the coffee table. I forgot to clean up beyond re-stocking my fridge when I got home yesterday; my head was still spinning after Danny kissed me again. He sighs, shaking his head. "If you turn into a walking bar like old Chaff, I'll…."

"One time thing. Drinks with a friend after my sister's wedding." My reply is to the point, and the subtext is even clearer: _Drop it_.

Brutus brightens in what must be relief, but it's small. "Many happy returns. Who'd she get hitched to?"

"The Mayor's son; he's next in line to govern. They'll be living in the Justice Building."

Brutus whistles. "Your parents must be pleased: a Quarter Quell Victor in one daughter, and a future District First Lady in the other…." Plucking one of the champagne flutes from the coffee table, he examines it with a put-upon sigh. "All the same, if we get to District 11 and Chaff hands you anything with an alcoholic content of over 0.01 - dump it. I won't have you teeter tottering all over the country just because you clearly can't hold your liquor."

I scowl, hands on my hips. "I can so…"

"Sure you can. One flute in you and you're hee-hawing with some friend – oh, but it's supposedly a 'one-time thing.'" He air-quotes, as my face goes white. Once again, Brutus picks up on it. Bastard. His smile broadens with intrigue. "Nice to know you've moved on from jacking off to a dead man's ghost."

It takes everything I have not to level my naginata right at his pecs. "When are Dolly and the others getting here?"

"Awww…. sick of me already?"

I grind my teeth. "Yes."

"The stationmaster told me their train isn't due until half past ten."

"So I'm stuck here alone with you for three and a half hours. Great."

Brutus huffs. "Well, if you can't stand the sight of me, hit the showers, get changed into something suitable, or find something _useful_ to do. Dolly and company will have to take care of the rest."

Huffing, I flounce upstairs and take a quick shower. Going through my closet of clothes, I ignore all the garments with more Capitol fashions in favor of my beige Reaping dress. In a strange way, it's almost like a piece of comfort clothes for me, and I sigh at how the fabric clings to my skin, cocooning me in soothing warmth. Braiding my hair, I head back downstairs to find Brutus watching the rerun of some Hunger Games on TV. He whoops as the eventual Victor takes down a difficult opponent in the boy from District 10.

"Man, the terrain they booked that year was _dope_!" Spying me, he grins and pats the empty cushion next to him. I gingerly lower myself onto the space, absently watching Claudius Templesmith give a rundown of the arena's landscape that has Brutus so jacked up.

"Now, for our viewers who don't know, these mazes of forests and deep ravines are part of a landscape called the Nantahala Wilderness, which was once a part of the American state known as North Carolina. Millennia ago, at the turn of the 21st century, a naughty little terrorist spent five years as a fugitive in these very woods…." Claudius chuckles as though the terrorist in question did little more than steal a cookie from his mother's cookie tin.

It's only just then that I notice Brutus side-eyeing me with a puzzled expression on his face. "So:" he breaks the silence. "This guy you bedded – he wouldn't happen to be the same guy who kissed you on Reaping Day while going steady with…?"

"Not answering that, Brutus," I spit.

"Was he at least competent in bed….?"

"Oh, shut up."

The three hours mercifully pass quickly, and we are just watching as Ben Cooper of District 9 becomes Victor of the 29th Hunger Games when there is a knock at the door.

"I'll get it," I firmly backhand Brutus into the couch cushions as he moves to get up. Crossing into the foyer, I brace myself as I open the door.

Dolly Evana's cry of delight quickly turns into a screech. "Oh, my starlet! What have you done to yourself?!"

"Took a shower…..?" I cock one eyebrow, even as I move to embrace her warmly.

"Well, not to worry, dear – Dolly's here!" She pinches my cheek like a mother hen and sweeps into the mansion. Quillia and Bette are right on her heels, and I give them my best valley girl smile as we kiss cheeks.

"We missed you too, honey." Quillia tells me.

"All right, let's go! Move it! We need to be out of here on the noon train!" Brutus bellows everyone to order.

It astonishes me how Dolly and her team can turn me into some kind of angel in less than 90 minutes. Before I can seemingly blink, we are on the platform in front of a cheering throng of nearly all of District 12, after a brief introduction in which I face once again the families of Gila Callan and Beech Berryhill. A separate stage is even erected for the Abernathys, although no one acknowledges why their platform is chillingly empty. As I prepare to step aboard the silver locomotive, my eyes spot Danny in the crowd. I feel my heart constrict in a way I've only been able to name when gazing at one other person, and I blow him a kiss. The crowd goes berserk, thinking the gesture is for all of them.

But with Danny's small smile, he and I both know that kiss was just for him. Just for… _us_.

* * *

We are already in District 11 by the time it's late afternoon. As soon as Brutus, Dolly and I step off the train, squads of Peacekeepers surround us and give us a military escort, hustling us into an armored car. They are just dancing on the line of manhandling us, and the roughness with which they conduct business here unnerves me. Even though he did ruin my sister's wedding reception, we in Twelve have all come to agree that Cray was just throwing his weight around. It's only been a couple of months, but we can already tell that our Head Peacekeeper has been settling in and appears to be slacking off after only a couple of demonstrations. We probably dodged a bullet with my taking out Cray's former commander – I have a feeling she would have been harsher. Just as harsh as these guys in Eleven.

Brutus smiles at me apologetically. "You may find that the atmosphere here is a bit different than in Twelve. These people are more…. hot-blooded." He presses some notecards into my hands. "Read exactly what's written here when you're cued. We'll be meeting with Mayor Ducey and the District 11 Victors in the Justice Building beforehand."

The armored cars stop at an imposing stone building, almost identical to the one in Twelve except for a classical dome, and admit us through a side entrance. I shake hands with Mayor Ducey, and laugh at how Chaff pushes him aside to envelop me in a big bear hug. There's a lady standing with him who looks to be about in her mid-thirties, whom Chaff introduces as Seeder, Victor of the 31st Hunger Games. Chaff and Seeder are the only two living Victors from this district, though they've had two others before them – a girl who won the 20th Games but died young and a boy who won the 3rd Games but hasn't been heard from in decades. He must be their Lucy Gray Baird, I ponder, as I stare up at fifteen-foot high tapestries depicting portraits of each of Eleven's four Victors.

Mayor Ducey ushers our group out onto a raised stage in front of the Justice Building. A chorus of voices goes up at the sight of me, tellingly with more boos and jeers than cheers. The reaction disquiets me, and I feel myself beginning to sway dangerously as I stare across the Square at the gathered families of the four dead tributes – tributes I didn't kill, didn't even know. I never encountered any of them in the arena. Three of them died in the bloodbath on the first day, and the fourth followed not long after. Even so, I will myself to concentrate on the names written on the notecards in Brutus's scrawl. I feel Chaff's one remaining hand nudge into the small of my back and stay there, keeping me upright; it's an anchor in this churning sea.

I find myself speaking the approved words woodenly, methodically. The most effort I can manage is not rushing through the speech too fast. Bedlam roars up once again as soon as I finish, and Mayor Ducey spirits us back into the Justice Building. The Peacekeepers are seen viciously holding the swell of angry people back before the oaken doors slam behind us.

I know I could have done better than the performance I just mailed in, but Brutus is the farthest thing from angry with me. Indeed, he pats my shoulder sympathetically.

"You're doing good, little darling. Even if it's all flat-lining from here on in, I'll be happy. This is stressful." He grimaces on the last word like he can't stand the taste of it. Or maybe it's not a strong enough word for what I'm being made to do.

I feel a warm aura of energy beside me, as Chaff stoops low to whisper in my ear: "How fast can you ditch Mr. Lend-Me-a-Bass?"

"What?" I turn to him, even though I heard the question perfectly well; Chaff just shakes his head. I get the subliminal messaging immediately: _Not here. We're being watched_. I should have known that the Justice Building would be bugged here, as it is in Twelve. Merle told me as much once that the Capitol's hidden microphone and camera technology is state-of-the-art.

Glancing ahead, I can see Seeder observing us from where she's been chatting with Brutus. My brow furrows as I try to think it out: Chaff needs to speak to me about something private, something important. But why does he feel that whatever he has to say, he can only say to me, and not to Brutus? Does the one-handed Victor not trust the ex-Career?

"Well," Chaff calls a little too loudly, slinging an arm over my shoulder. "Y'all got some time to kill before ya gotta get back on the road. Maysilee, how's about I give you a tour of our _fantastic_ grain silos?"

I play along with ease. "Sure. That sounds like fun."

"Oh, good," Brutus turns back to us. "Never did get a proper look at Eleven on my Victory Tour myself. I'd love to see it…"

"Actually, Brutus," Seeder loops her arm through his. "I've been _dying_ to show you our Victors' Village. Chaff's place is a dump, but I got some new décor recently that is just darling! Oh, and Orchus and Wren's mansions have been turned into museums – the curator is a master…." And she drags Brutus away, my mentor glancing back to me once hesitantly. Chaff just smiles winningly and shoos him.

"We kiddies'll have some fun, Brutus; she's in good hands!" Once Seeder and Brutus are gone, Chaff holds out his arm to me. "Shall we?"

Giggling, I take his arm and with Mayor Ducey in tow, we head through Eleven's main town to the largest grain silo in the district. The roar that greets us is almost deafening, and Mayor Ducey lifts his hands to his ears with a wince.

"If you've got her here, Chaff, I'll just head back to the office, if it's all the same to you!" He has to holler to make himself heard over the engines.

Chaff just gives him a thumbs-up, and Mayor Ducey departs with a lame wave. The minute he's gone, Chaff guides me into the shadow of one silo, slinging an arm about me and making a show of pointing up at the grain being cycled through. Then his lips are nearly in my ear, and he whispers to me:

"I'm sorry we had to lose old All-About-That-Bass, but I needed to get you alone, and I haven't gotten a read on Brutus yet and where he might stand. Anytime I ask you a Yes-or-No question, respond nonverbally and accordingly. Let's start with this one: did you murder your district's Head Peacekeeper fresh out of the box?"

I nod my head, making it look as though I'm comprehending something Chaff is pointing out to me about the silo. Turning my face to his, I whisper in his ear now:

"The bitch targeted Haymitch Abernathy's family for execution; I couldn't just do nothing."

Chaff shakes his head, regarding me in a way that makes it seem like he's impressed. "Poor guy. I always liked him. Forgive me for saying so, but I was rooting for him over you until y'all's other boy stabbed him. Laugh like I've said something funny."

I do, even though it isn't funny at all, and even while it fades, my smile lets Chaff know that I hold nothing against him.

"How did you know about it?" I hiss.

"It was all over national news," Chaff gets out in a rush. "You didn't hear about it?"

I shake my head. "I don't watch too much television."

"Yeah? Well, start. One of our techies fucked up and replayed the whole execution, right through you attacking the Peacekeeper bitch. The feed cut out after you slit her throat, but the point was left clear enough."

"Wow!" I say, making a show of gesturing to the whole expanse of the factory. Chaff imperceptibly nods in approval.

"You're a quick study. And you're a badass, Miss Donner. We could use a fighter like you."

"For what?" I breathe.

Chaff's eyes – dark as coals – are practically afire. "To eventually one day bring down the Capitol."

I stare at him for a moment before quickly glancing away and pretending to point out something about the mill.

"We're chomping at the bit here, but nowhere else is nearly ready yet. We know going in that it'll take years – maybe even a decade or more – but we need eyes and ears in Twelve to see if and when the people might be willing to rise up. See, the Victors are the only ones who can talk or travel anywhere between districts. Mind you, the travel part is limited to either Victory Tours or Games season, with maybe some…. summons mixed in, but we're the only people in Panem who could build up a network. You can help us do that, Maysie."

I worry my bottom lip. "There aren't many of us in Twelve – only about 8,000 total," I report, as I make another sweeping gesture with my hand. "And the dude who filled the Head Peacekeeper slot seems to be easing up. Thinks Twelve is a cushy assignment, and outside of a few brawls he instigates, he doesn't need to do much to subjugate us. If I were to do this, there are people I'd need to protect; my sister just got married." And it's more than just Kaydilyn, I silently tell myself. It's my brother-in-law, Merle… my parents… Belle, my best friend…. _Danny_ …..

Chaff is listening to me intently. "I understand," he soothes. "Just think about it. Give me an answer when you come to mentor this summer for the Games. Deal?" He gives a jerk of his head, signaling me that it's time to go. I follow him out into the sunlight. But just before the roars of the engines fade away, I hiss to my new Victor friend:

"Deal."

* * *

After District 11, the rest of the Victory Tour seems to fly by in a blur.

The one thing that makes District 12 distinct is that any person who wins the Games from there only has to crisscross the country once, going district by district all the way to the Capitol in descending order. Only successful tributes from District 1 can say the same, except they swing through Panem in the opposite direction.

It is hardest for me to face the families of tributes I personally killed or witnessed dying, like in Districts 5, 6 and 9. But after secretly hobnobbing with Chaff, the most memorable moments of my Tour come when we arrive in the Career districts.

Brutus extolls the virtues of his homeland as we draw closer to Two, telling me that the people will shower me with praise and respect. I find that hard to believe, and hold out hope that perhaps my mentor's ten other fellow Victors will be the most welcoming.

On each of these points, we both prove to be somewhat wrong.

It is difficult for me to meet the eyes of the families on the left side of the Square. Both of the boys submitted as tribute from District 2 died at my hand: the younger boy at the bloodbath, and the other by poisoned dart to save Haymitch's life. Both of the families of these boys perform the traditional crossing of their chests while intoning Glory With Honor, but there is none of the warmth, respect and good sportsmanship that Brutus said I'd find there. Good sportsmanship… in a fight to the death, is there such a thing?

Brutus has always been perceptive enough to at least notice when something is off, most of all with me. From the pinched look on his face when I go back to join him in the Justice Building, he clearly perceived his homeland's lukewarm reception, and is embarrassed by it. He moves quickly to escort me on a grand tour of the district, showing off their Games training school, the stone quarries – and finally, the piece de resistance, Two's sprawling Victors' Village.

In a perfect reversal of my home's own Victors' Village (where all but one are empty), here all but one of the mansions are full. Eleven people live here, including Brutus, and they are each hoping that this coming summer will finally be the year that Two becomes the first district to fill every single house in its Village. If this community of ex-warriors that functions more like a dysfunctional family even knows what they'll do should a 13th Victor be someday added to their ranks, no one postulates on it.

And of these eleven, their reception of the newest Victor – though markedly better than that of their district at large – is still a pretty mixed bag.

A woman who appears middle-aged but already has silver lines in her hair, Boudicca, eyes me up and down, unimpressed. She is apparently the headmistress of the Training School where Brutus and every other Two Victor before him (save one) trained to become a cold-blooded killer. Bartimaeus Pastier, the ox-like, mostly silent man who triumphed thirteen years ago and coached both of the boys I killed (Ares Valerio mentored the girls), glowers at me with barely concealed resentment. Granyte Tanner, a man with whitening golden hair confined to a wheelchair after suffering a nearly fatal injury in the Games he won three decades before Brutus, is the friendliest of the bunch. But it is Ahenobarbus Romero, the first Victor ever, who lays down the final word: I am here. I am the Victor, and we should all welcome her, so shake hands, damnit. Ahenobarbus clearly takes the concept of Glory With Honor, of good sportsmanship such as it exists in a death match with pretty much no rules, as seriously as Brutus does. And from them both – District 2's first Victor and its latest – I learn an important lesson that I'll likely need to take with me when I start mentoring: the person who is the Victor is so because they deserved to be.

I nearly cry in relief when we arrive in District 1 – the last stop before the Capitol. As I give my speech, I find myself locking onto Opal's family the entire time, and the frosty glowering they direct at me chills my bones. I didn't kill Opal – Beech did, but that distinction probably doesn't mean a damn thing. Beech was my district partner, so in this family's eyes, District 12 as a whole is just as responsible for Opal not coming back, no matter which of its tributes actually delivered the deathblow.

An extravagant, wild rave is thrown for me in the finest garden in the Capitol, which is affectionately known as the Rose Garden and dates back centuries. Dolly and my prep team tell me breathlessly how much President Snow adores roses. In the middle of the celebration, when a Capitol attendant approaches and informs me that the President has requested an audience with me, my stylist is nearly sent into ecstasy.

When I ask, however, if Brutus can come with me – he _is_ my mentor – the attendant says no, sorry, the President insisted this meeting be private. Brutus takes this slight much better than he did his own district's less-than-enthused behavior towards me, and squeezes my hand.

"I'll be right here when you get back."

The attendant guides me into the Presidential Mansion, past Peacekeepers wearing three-piece tuxedo suits and with really slick earpieces wrapped around their temples. These officers are apparently not referred to as Peacekeepers, but as 'agents' – an elite squadron of soldiers tasked with protecting the President. I am finally shown into an ornate office shaped in an oval and surrounded on all sides by windows. It is quite a panoramic view, capped by an exquisite mahogany desk.

The swivel chair is faced slightly away from me, President Snow's white beard casting a sharp profile as his eyes watch something down low on the floor. Craning my neck around the desk, I make out an antique television set, but the complete picture of whatever is playing is also obscured.

"Such bravery. Such…. spirit. Such…. passion," Snow drolls. He sounds like a strange cross between somebody's grandfather and a guy in a red suit whom I've heard stories about round this time of year, during the Winter Festival (I believe the name used is "Santa Claus"), but when he at last turns to face me, I don't find any warmth in this man's features. I gulp, trying to keep my voice as measured as possible.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. President?"

"Just an opportunity to formally greet Panem's most popular Victor. I did tell you at your final interview with Mr. Flickerman that the Capitol and I looked forward to getting to know you better. Of course, that was before…. you did this."

He abruptly turns the small television towards me with his foot, and my mouth drops open in horror: it is a playback of the execution of the Abernathys that cold, fall day in the Square. Chaff was right…. some techie really fucked up. I watch the Head Peacekeeper sinking to her knees, clawing at her throat after I draw the naginata across it.

"Vengeance can be a powerful tool, Miss Donner, there's no doubt about that, but to do it in the name of a schoolgirl crush…. an ode to lost love…." he tssks as if love, even when it births qualities most valuable in a Victor such as avenging an ally's death, is some kind of weakness. "If the people weren't enamored with you so, I would have had you locked up and executed for murder of an officer of the state."

I daren't speak it aloud, but I have a feeling that Snow is talking out of his ass and just hopes that I don't know he's bluffing. Chaff told me a story back in Eleven of how, not long after he came home from the arena, he was caught stealing some food from a prominent overseer and giving it to a starving family who wasn't making it on the meager wages picking cotton. When the theft was discovered, the family was beaten under the lash, even while Chaff – the actual culprit – went untouched. No, Victors pretty much have the run of their districts, and the Capitol can do next to nothing to stop us.

Snow circles the desk, looking down at me with that look I got from my father now and again when I was little and misbehaved. "Now, Miss Donner, I hope that you won't cause trouble for me. I know you don't want that. I need loyalty from my Victors. I expect it. And I need to know that you will do as you are told."

He crosses over to a portrait hanging on the curved walls of this Oval Office, staring up at it with admiration. "Would you like to meet one of my predecessors, Miss Donner?"

As if I have a choice. I drift over to the President's side. The man sneering down at us either had Antonia or someone talentless like her for a stylist (four words: Way. Too. Much. Bronzer), or spent an exorbitant amount of time tanning himself on the beaches I saw in Four. In either case, his pallor appears almost orange, like the smog color Caesar used for his fashion statement at my first interview.

"One of the American presidents," Snow explains to me. "Donald Trump was a very bold and daring man. Much like myself. He had power, and knew how to wield it. I aim to be like him – you could say he's a hero of mine."

I warily glance from this President long since dead to the current one standing beside me. "What happened to him?"

Snow sighs regretfully. "Panem was not ready to awaken yet. The people did not know what they needed. And unfortunately for him, Donald was not nearly as shrewd as he could have been. Tragic, really." He shakes his head, turning to look me directly in the eye. "I am not so dimwitted, Miss Donner."

Silence hangs thick in the air, and for a moment, I allow myself to ponder if he already knows what I am considering doing. What Chaff has been trying to recruit me to do. I keep my expression neutral, however, and eventually the President seems to relax, procuring a white envelope from his pocket, handing it to me.

"There are many people who would like to see you, Miss Donner. Of course, I had to instill in them patience, as this is your party, but I assured them that you would be available during the Games. They are anxious for you to…. entertain them, which I know you'll do well, given the marvelous display you and Mr. Abernathy graced us with. Such grander pornography Panem has never consumed. It may not have been appropriate for younger viewership, but folks here in the Capitol were quite taken with your performance."

I feel myself start to sweat. Clutching the envelope, I realize that even though I have not opened it, I can still smell the putrid aroma of roses that I detected on Snow the last time I was near him.

"Do you understand what is expected of you, Miss Donner?"

I nod slowly, trying not to let the tears leak out. "And what if I refuse?" My voice is too weak to make it a convincing challenge, but I feel the question still needs to be asked. To probe and see if there is a way out.

If there is, Snow emphatically seals off any escape. "Then your sister shall be Reaped at the earliest opportunity. You are twins, yes? It would be a pity – she seems like a perfect, blushing young bride. And that boyfriend of yours…." My heart nearly stops, for I know he's not talking about Haymitch.

"Danny's just a friend," I almost plead.

"Of course he is, my dear," Snow chuckles dolefully. "But I can make sure his death will still hurt. You might not be ready to admit it to yourself, but from what I've seen, I don't think you could stand to lose him." He clicks a remote I didn't even realize was in his palm, and the image on the TV shifts. My mouth drops open in horror and I nearly scream as I watch a hidden camera capture footage of Danny and I having sex on my sister's wedding night. So, my house is definitely bugged. But more disturbing than that, the President watched it all. What I do, and who I take to bed. Snow is taking on the persona of every mafia don we ever learned about in World History class: _Nice not-quite-boyfriend you got there. Be a shame if anything happened to him._

I scarcely hear the President dismiss me with a curt nod of his head. "Good evening to you, Miss Donner. See you next summer."

I turn to exit the oval office in a fog. Just as I reach the door, the President turns back. "Oh: and happy Hunger Games."

* * *

I return to District 12 the following morning positively drained, the despair I feel conversely injecting me with a kind of invigoration as I step back onto my homeland's soil. In a panic, I pelt for my family's candy shop, nearly crying in relief when I spy Kaydilyn working the cash register through the glassy planes. My mind blips to random trains of thought, and I tear across the street to the bakery, knocking on the door frantically.

The minute Danny opens the door, as I hoped and prayed he would, I throw my arms around him, barely able to keep from sobbing.

"Thank Panem…."

He just chuckles and holds me, rocking me against him. "Welcome home," he rumbles. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too, Danny," I breathe into his shirtfront. "You have no _idea_ how much." Stepping back out of the hug, I put on the bravest face that I can. "So: what did I miss?"

Danny's sparkling blue eyes dim sadly. "Well, it's official: Belle is going out with Glen Everdeen. She took me aside at the Winter Festival to let me down gently, but it seemed more like a formality at that point."

I smile at him pityingly. "Oh, Danny, I'm so sorry…."

"Stop," he shakes his head. "I think…. Belle and I had already parted ways; I was just too blind to see it." His warm gaze – warm like the ovens he works – peer at me. "Just promise me you won't leave me, won't you?"

I beam at him. "Here's my promise." And looping my arms about his neck, I reach up and mash my lips to his in a passionate kiss. Surprised and delighted, Danny's arms steal about my waist and pull me flush against him as he kisses me back.

When we finally break apart, our arms still wound about each other, I smile as bravely as I can at him. "I've been thinking: if you still want to… be with me, I'm the kind of Merchant girl who loves it when a boy takes her out to dinner, gives her flowers. That is, if you'll still have me."

Danny beams. "Of _course_ I'll have you." He kisses me first now, softer this time, and I melt into it, the pair of us giggling at the strange, new and exhilarating feeling of two friends exploring what _more_ could look like. When I draw away, I nearly swoon at the pure love with which Danny regards me.

"Marry me?"

I throw back my head and burst out laughing. "Let's go out on a proper date first. But if you want to work on that proposal…. ask me again in two years. After your last Reaping."

Danny swoops down and pecks my lips chastely. "Deal."

I grin at him, amused. "Then you'll stay with me?"

"Always," he croons.

I beam, radiant. "Just the answer I was hoping for." Danny smiles back, and we embrace and kiss.


	16. Mrs. Mellark

**Chapter 16: Mrs. Mellark**

Adorned in my mother's wedding dress – a family heirloom that she passed down to Kaydilyn and me, and that I one day hope to pass down to any future daughter of mine – my hair in ringlets, I stand in my mansion's sitting room over a blazing hearth. Surrounded by family and friends, I smile happily as Danny slips the ring on my finger and then feeds me a piece of bread that he baked himself.

"Maysilee Katherine Donner, with this ring, I thee wed."

I beam at him, presenting him with his own ring and feeding him another piece of bread. "Dannel Mellark, with this ring, I thee wed." Then, spontaneously, I add: "I love my husband."

The preacher man looks between us both with a smile. "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Beaming, I melt into Danny's arms and he kisses me passionately, lifting me so that my feet leave the ground and he spins me about as I deepen the kiss. Around us, our loved ones burst into applause and cheers.

When he sets me down and we break apart, smiling into each other's eyes, I turn into my new husband with a potent blush, giddy as I stare out at all the people who love me.

Merle Undersee, my brother-in-law, is the first one to us, enthusiastically pumping Danny's hand. "Never thought we'd make an honest woman out of this Victor! Hurrah! Congratulations, you two."

Kaydilyn flits over to me, mascara running and we kiss cheeks happily. "I'm so ecstatic for you, sissy! He's a handsome guy to keep around."

I gaze up at Danny, eyes shining. "I think I will. He's the only one I know who would let me eat him out of house and home."

Slinging an arm around me, Danny throws back his head and laughs the most beautiful laugh I've ever heard from him. "Imagine this – the most charismatic brother-in-law, the best sister-in-law and the prettiest wife!" The grins can't seem to come off our faces as Danny and I lean in and kiss again lightly.

He proposed to me while I was still in the Justice Building, waiting to guide my two Seam tributes for the 52nd Hunger Games to the train. Freed from the Reaping forever just moments before, my boyfriend of eighteen months poured out his heart and asked me to marry him. Eyes brimming with tears, I gleefully accepted, pulling Danny to me and kissing him goodbye, promising that I would see him after I came home from the Games. We may not have been each other's first love. We may be each other's second choice, but if I could envision myself being married to anyone at present, it would be Danny. I hid the engagement ring in the folds of my dress and kept it close to me religiously; I didn't want the media, and least of all Snow, getting wind of my impending nuptials.

Both of my protégés for the 52nd Games this year died in the bloodbath, just as both my tributes died there the year before. I had hoped to guide another Twelve kid through my first year as a mentor, but it was not to be – Lyme Tanner, a niece of the District 2 Victor Granyte Tanner, won it all that year, ensuring the final house in their Victors' Village would be occupied at last. With no district having to take another Victor out on loan anymore, Brutus was the one to guide Lyme to Victory. Afterwards, at Lyme's final interview, he could tell how disappointed I was.

"Don't take it to heart. And don't get discouraged," my old mentor told me. "There's only been one time that a district has ever racked up consecutive wins, and it was decades ago. I highly doubt such a thing will ever happen again, at least not for a long while."

"Which District was it?" I wanted to know. I was soon sorry I asked.

Brutus grinned guiltily. "Us. Boudicca won the 17th Games, and then mentored Granyte to Victory the following year."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"Well…. yes," Brutus had finished lamely. "But I can understand why it wouldn't." I didn't bother trying to remind him that he technically now has back-to-back wins as a mentor, just for different districts. He had patted me on the shoulder. "Just be patient, Maysilee. You'll get yourself a Victor someday."

Considering that forty years elapsed between Lucy Gray Baird's triumph and my own, I'm not holding out much hope.

Daddy now approaches me, his newly married eldest daughter, and embraces me warmly, tears in his eyes. "I never thought I'd live to see this day," he murmurs to me. Frankly, I never thought I'd be married at only 18, or even live long enough to _be_ 18, but with both his daughters happily married in less than two years, I let Daddy savor the moment. He clearly is pleased. "You chose well, Maysie Bird. I love you." Stepping back, he shakes Danny's hand. "Congratulations, son."

"Sir," Danny nods to his father-in-law deferentially.

"Challah and I will have to discuss revising some terms of our business contract, in the interest of ethics, you know. Your father and I don't want any misconstrued appearances about you lovebirds' happiness…."

I break away from the men to rush into the arms of my best friend with a cry. Belle is looking exquisite in her Maid of Honor gown, and she beams wetly at me.

"You're so beautiful…." she whimpers, wiping at her eyes. "Congratulations and many blessings on you both!"

"Thank you," I giggle. I probe her eyes searchingly. "Are you… OK?" I hesitantly float. "Being here?"

Belle's radiance wobbles just a bit but she nods firmly. "Absolutely. Danny and I had talked it through a long time ago, and we're good." Her lips upturn back into a grin. "He's a lucky man – I know. You have one of the best."

I glance back at my husband with fondness and deep love. "Yes, I do."

A tall and striking figure soon sidles up to us both, and Belle shyly tucks into his side. Glen is bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Always in the mood for a party. And it was a truly lovely ceremony. May I?" he glances down at Belle, gesturing to me, as if he needs to ask for permission.

"Please," Belle shrugs.

"Congratulations," Glen smiles at me winningly as he stoops to peck my cheek. My cheeks glow pink, and he laughs. "Look at her, the blushing bride! She's as red as those tributes that come out of Five!"

BAM! Just like that, I flash back to holding the hand of the dying boy from 5 in my Games, Haymitch kneeling on his other side.

"Maysilee…. _Maysilee_!" I snap back to myself, eyes coming to rest on Belle's concerned face. "Are you all right?"

I gulp. "Yeah. I'm fine."

Glen is also eyeing me with big-brotherly concern. "If you're sure…." He takes his girlfriend's hand. "Come and dance?"

She nods eagerly, and he leads her out through the back patio doors and onto the dance floor that is really my back lawn. I watch how they hold each other so closely, and can't help but admire them as a couple. They look…. quite natural together.

I sense my father draw up beside me, his piercing blue eyes smoldering on my best friend and her lover. "What's _he_ doing here?" he sneers. Just like at Kaydilyn and Merle's Toasting, Glen is the only Seamer in attendance.

"Belley is my Maid of Honor; she needed a plus one. Besides, I invited him. It's my wedding day. Now sit down, have a glass of wine, and shut up." He blinks as he turns to me, flinching at my sharp tone, but I just eye him warningly. If I have to act like a Bridezilla for just this one moment, I will do it, to defend my friends. And Glen _is_ my friend, and what he said was true: this truly was a wonderful Toasting, and it was all the better for his being here. I don't know how Danny feels about the subject (he was quiet when we were going over the guest list) but I have sensed that like Belle, he has gotten over it. He certainly seems to enjoy kissing me, making love to me and generally fooling around. It was a whirlwind courtship, to be sure, and an even hastier engagement – I insisted on us getting married as soon as possible the minute I arrived home from the Capitol, forgoing the church wedding we had tentatively arranged for the winter, during late-night phone calls from my room in the Training Center – but I am happier than I have ever been. I am in love with a man who cares for me deeply, and as long as we have each other, the temptations of other coping mechanisms like drugs and booze can be kept at bay. After all, Brutus once cracked that sex isn't the worst addiction to have, out of all the ones Victors use, and with my growing experience and how I love being intimate with Danny, I can afford to be addicted to this.

As I scan the crowd of faces, I think I see, for just a moment, a face I have missed every day for two years. Two years exactly as I realize, with a jolt, that today is July 20th. Two years ago today, I lost him.

The vision of Haymitch just smiles and winks at me before vanishing, and I tamp down a sob.

* * *

As soon as the last of our guests have exited the Village, Danny sweeps me off my feet and carries me grandly across our threshold. With a shocked squeal, I let him, and he doesn't set me down until he has carried me all the way to our room. To our bed. Smirking impishly, I tackle him, pinning him to the mattress as I sexily move to straddle him.

"What are you going to do to me… Mrs. Mellark?" There is a devilish glint in Danny's eyes that almost reminds me of…. someone else I once knew.

I grin naughtily. "You'll find out." And dipping my head, I kiss him sensuously, moaning as his large fingers undress me from my wedding gown with surprising delicateness. Lifting my hips, I sink down on him, slowly undulating my body as I make sweet love to him.

"Huhhh… Uhhhh…. Ermmm….. Hmmmm… I love you," I croon.

He whimpers and shoots up into me far too quickly, but I just giggle and rub myself against him until I too reach completion.

I jerk awake with a start a few hours later, sweaty and naked and wrapped in the arms of my husband, who is snoring peacefully beside me. Pecking his lips softly, I extract myself from his warm embrace and wrap my nightgown about me, stealing from the bedroom softly. Danny doesn't stir, and I smile at his slumbering form tenderly before stealing out into the night.

A light summer rain has begun to fall, but I don't pay it any mid; the droplets are almost lukewarm against my skin, so I won't catch a chill. I am already working hard enough to try and banish from my mind the horrifying image that awoke me, of my girl this year being bludgeoned to death by the eventual Victor – a gutsy and insufferable rogue from District 7 by the name of Blight Gavin. By the light of the streetlamps, I traverse down the hill, pass through the Seam and enter Town proper. I don't stop until I reach the yard of the district school, just ahead of the Square and the Justice Building. In the shadow of two looming stone monuments, I gaze up at the one to my left.

Lucy Gray Baird snarls viciously out at something invisible in the distance, a sundress swishing down past her knees – in her day, tributes were apparently thrown into the arena in the clothes they were Reaped in, which probably made surviving harder. The outfits tributes wear now are much more utilitarian and practical, tailored to the arena's particular elements. Lucy holds what looks like a rattler aloft, its poisonous fangs bared as much as the teeth of its master. Though no one of my generation has ever seen the tape (and I've watched quite a few reruns, both during and after Games season), and although few people who knew her remain alive in Twelve, it is the general consensus that this moment – frozen in stone and in time – comes from an actual sequence in Lucy Gray's Games. It may even be the moment that put her on the final path to Victory. The implications are impressive: a tribute somehow taming a mutt and then wielding it as a weapon. It makes the statue to my right look drab my comparison.

The sculptor who unveiled my statue in the schoolyard this past winter was clearly trying to have the best of both worlds: I look at once both beautiful and deadly, my naginata hoisted above my head while in my other hand, I put the hollow end of the blowpipe to my lips, prepared to shoot. I've always thought the image more silly than intimidating; I look like a murderous Pied Piper.

Danny told me the story of the Pied Piper of Hamlin one night several weeks ago, as a sort of pillow talk after we spent hours upon hours slowly and tenderly fucking each other between the sheets. According to the version Haymitch relayed to him, the Pied Piper of Hamlin played his beautiful music to lure children to cliffs on the edge of town, and then ultimately, to their deaths.

Am I like him? Am I the Pied Piper of District 12, beckoning the tributes chosen to their deaths, fattening them up with foodstuffs and riches before the slaughter? Twice now, I have brought a pair of children to the arena, and twice I have failed to bring even one of them back with me alive. I know she isn't exactly a model I can turn to for commiseration – Lucy Gray Baird disappeared before she could mentor any tributes, and even then, the concept of former Victors mentoring future ones was still being refined, in the first decade or two of the Games. Still, I can't help but wonder….

"What would you do?" The marble goddess above me does not answer; I do not expect one. Sighing, drawing my dressing gown around myself, I steal back up across the district and to my mansion high on the hill. Back to my sweet husband…. and back to my life.


	17. Panic Room

**Chapter 17: Panic Room**

Danny finds me quickly after my two tributes and I are taken into custody in the Justice Building. Giving me a sympathetic smile, my husband wraps me in his arms and we kiss chastely.

"First Merchant tribute Reaped since you were. How does it feel?"

"Put it this way: let's just hope that the fact that it's the boy doesn't give me too much PTSD."

"Speaking of 'it's a boy'…." Danny's grin broadens with pride as he slips a finger down to tickle the pronounced swell of my belly. "How is little Mellark?"

I beam sweetly at him. He really is the dearest man. "Baby is fine…" I feel a kick within my womb. "He likes hearing his Daddy's voice."

Danny giggles in delight. "Good." His eyes rove over my body with lust, but also with concern. At 7 months pregnant, it won't be long before I need to be ordered on bedrest. In discussing starting a family, I admit that Danny and I could have planned it a little better. The baby won't be due until September, but how am I supposed to mentor if there comes a point when I can't even get out of my Capitol orthopedic bed? "You sure you'll be all right?"

"I'll be fine," I smile up at him sweetly. "The minute I told Mags over the phone, she declared herself my nursemaid the whole time we're in the Capitol. Seeder will help me too." I sigh. "I don't know what Brutus is going to think when sees my stomach out to my feet. 20 and pregnant isn't exactly my style."

"Perhaps not, but in any case, it suits you." Danny undresses me with his eyes again, and I feel my breath hitch. If we had more time, I'd take him right here against the wall. "You're so beautiful…."

I blush furiously. "Thank you." A Peacekeeper patrols past us, in the direction of the staircase, probably to check one of the tributes' holding rooms on the second floor. I turn back to my husband and the father of our baby. "If you can get in line, can you pay a visit to Morrel, the boy? I know the Steelmarks would appreciate it."

"You got it," Danny grins. Beaming, I cup his face in my hands and kiss him chastely. He dives in further to deepen the kiss, and I purr in contentment, surprised and pleased by his passion. "Have a good time, dear." He pecks me on the lips lightly one last time and I shoo him towards the stairs. But not before he can double back and tickle my stomach. "Goodbye, Sourdough."

I know he is joking, but I still feel the need to express, "Family tradition or not, so help me Panem, we are not naming any son of ours _Sourdough_!"

He just laughs and mounts the spiral staircase, calling to me. "I love you, crazy lady!"

I smile softly at him. "I love you too, silly man."

Pregnant or not, the 54th Annual Hunger Games is going to be a wild ride….

* * *

"I know. You don't have to say it: I'm fat," I announce to both Mags Flanagan and Seeder Crue once they see me after the parade.

"Bull-effing-shit," Mags quips, wrapping me in a hug. "If I had ever looked half as good as you do knocked up, every Senator and sponsor and Snow-knows-who-else would have been lining up for a crack at me from here to Victors' Island!"

That's one of the cool things about the Victors' Village in Four: they get theirs placed on an island. Ours in Twelve is on a hill. I'd sooner trade landmarks if it meant Danny and I could have even more privacy. Ever since we announced we were expecting, my parents, his parents, my sister and Merle and everyone else in Town hasn't been able to shut up. It's rare for a Victor to have a family of her own, just as it's rare for her (or him) to even get married at all – Brutus found out I had gotten hitched nearly three months after the fact, when an advertisement appeared in a Capitol newspaper with the headline DONNER, MELLARK WED. I had spent the better part of a day with my mentor screaming in my ear about how could I not tell him, and days later an express package arrived from him containing a vanity and a congrats card, part of which read, _Hell if I know what to get women after these things_.

"Thank Panem I won't need to go through that this year," I sigh, never feeling more grateful to be pregnant in my life as I rub my swollen belly.

"Who says you won't?" Seeder cocks an eyebrow.

"Says the President. No one is allowed to buy a Victor for a night if she is expecting – Capitol rules."

"Nice out!" Seeder whistles. "All the men lusting after you and they can't have you. Brutus is gonna pitch a fit when he sees you!"

"While he's pitching a tent," Mags snorts. "If anyone needs to settle down, that player who was your mentor does!" The aging woman turns to me, looping an arm through mine as we stroll to the Training Center elevators. "Now, dearie: here's what you need to do if you want this little young'in to come out happy and healthy…"

I let Mags give me motherly advice all the way up to the penthouse suite. Her male tribute, Halibut Shore, has to ride up and fetch the older woman when it's nearing midnight.

Halibut may be sweet and deferential towards his mentor, but in the arena, he's vicious. For my sake, I have to applaud him for also being efficient – within a week and a half, the Victor's Crown is his, and I am back home in District 12 and in Danny's arms.

Our son arrives screaming into the world several weeks later, still over a month early. We name him Jonadab.

* * *

It is a chilly Saturday evening a handful of months later. We always keep our longest hours at the candy shop on Saturdays, where I am currently manning the counter and trying to entertain my four-month-old son simultaneously. Mama is watching me with an enraptured expression on her face. She and Daddy have already taken to doting on their first grandchild.

"I can take him upstairs and put him down for the night, Maysie, dear…"

"He'll nod off on his own, Mama. Besides, it's still…. hard for me to be away from him." I smile at my son adoringly. I don't know what I'm going to do when I have to leave him for the Games next summer; it will likely be the longest we have ever been apart in his still-young life.

Daddy's heavy tread can be heard as he comes up from the basement, a tired but pleased smile on his face. "Well, the candy canes are nearly done, and just in time for the Winter Festival next week, too!"

Suddenly, the door to the shop bangs open and a winter breeze practically blows in Barnabus Foley, the father of my best friend.

Daddy smiles. "Evening, Barnabus." Getting a good look at his friend's face, my father's own expression falls. "What's wrong? You look as though you've seen…."

"…. Lucy Gray Baird's ghost," I intone the familiar phrase.

Daddy winks at me. "You've heard it before," he chuckles.

Barnabus, however, appears to be in no mood for jokes. "It's happened, Thomas!"

"Happened? What has?"

"That Seam street rat has stolen my daughter away! Lucius Rosen – you know the district clerk? – stops me in the street not half an hour ago as I'm leaving the office and grants me many happy returns on my daughter's marriage! I think he must be mad, until he proceeds to tell me that that filthy miner managed to get my daughter – _my daughter_! – to elope with him! They've probably had a Toasting by now!"

My entire face goes ashen. Oh, my Panem…. they did it. They actually, really did it.

Belle Foley and Glen Everdeen have been steady going on just about four years; they got together officially while I was away on my Victory Tour. Most everyone in Town knows of the courtship and has watched it with wary eyes. Though he doesn't approve and has tried every attempt at discouragement, Barnabus has not been able to stop his headstrong girl from seeing the man she loves.

Outside the store, I can hear shouts going up, and the bobbing buoys of torchlight illuminating the cobblestone streets outside. Barnabus is now pleading with my father.

"I need your help, Tom! We're going to march on the Barracks and appeal to Cray to let us into the district armory – pitchforks won't do the trick! People are out for that Everdeen's blood – they want to shoot him dead, and for that we need guns!"

I nearly sway into a dead faint and only the counter stops me. _Guns_?

"And have the Head Peacekeeper think we're spoiling for an uprising?" Daddy's jaw drops. I'm pretty sure this is the first time I've heard anyone in Twelve use the word 'uprising' in a sentence. Chaff won't be pleased – at this rate, I'll be a grandmother myself before we ever rebel against the Capitol.

"Besides," Daddy is saying, "I doubt it will come to that; if we can talk some sense into Belle, maybe she'll agree to go before Rosen and annul this marriage on her own…."

"She won't listen to me! Never has when it comes to that…. that…." Barnabus's eyes lock onto me, waiting for me to back him up, or at least supply him with a strong enough epithet to describe Glen Everdeen. I remain stonily silent.

"Nevertheless, using firepower to settle a domestic dispute is unwise. Let's gather the search party and work our way up from there. There are few places in Twelve a couple of young'ins can go; Belley and the boy can't have made it far! I'll get my shovel!" That's about as 'armed' as a Merchant man can get in District 12.

Barnabus's eyes glint bloodthirstily. Dashing for the door of the shop, he throws it open and bellows into the street. "Let's string us up a Seam rat from the Hanging Tree, boys! We're going hunting!"

"Yeah, yeah! You heard the man! Off with his head! We can't have Seamers defiling our women!" The crowd yells up in an approving chorus.

Daddy returns with his shovel, and kisses Mama when she draws to his side, stricken.

"You'll be gentle with Belle, won't you?"

"Of course. It's that Everdeen boy who should be wishing he was dead…" Daddy mutters darkly. He blows me a kiss, waves to his gurgling grandson bopping obliviously in his high chair, and storms out of the shop. Mama and I watch as the mob and their torchlights fade off, heading due east. They'll be checking the school and the play-yard first.

My brain is spinning, and I wait what I judge to be a comfortable three minutes before shucking my apron.

"Mama, look after Jonadab!" I kiss my son goodbye and pelt out of the candy store.

"Where are you…..? – Maysilee!"

"I have to tell Danny!" I come up with a passable excuse and pelt towards the bakery, rounding to the back loading dock. Soon as I'm out of sight, however, I double back and disappear down a sidestreet. The alleys and back roads allow me to emerge in the Seam just beyond the Slag Heap to the west. From there, I make a mad dash for the Village. Danny won't want to know what's happening, and he's working late with his parents anyway. When we married, we agreed that we would live together in my mansion in the Village – something that my husband and newborn son are entitled to, being closely tied to me, a Victor.

Daddy is right, of course – there are only a few places in Twelve two young people in love can go, and it won't be long before Barnabus and his posse have exhausted through all of them. There are even fewer places where Glen and Belle might believe they're safe.

Which is why it's imperative that I get to Victors' Village before the mob does.

Sprinting over the crest of the hill, my intuition turns out to be just as I suspected: Glen and Belle – both clad in Toasting finery (in their case, that doubles as their Reaping Day best) - are huddled together on my front stoop, Glen in the process of knocking again.

"Belle!"

"Maysie!" My best girlfriend embraces me tightly. "We heard shouting coming from near the Square. Is Daddy….?"

"Half of Town is after you," I nod grimly. "Your father showed up in Mama and Daddy's shop in a right state. Said you both exchanged vows and signed a marriage license with Clerk Rosen." I turn to Glen, who is eyeing me nervously, as though he is uncertain of whether or not I approve. "Have you had your Toasting?"

"Had no bread," he says. "And we couldn't very well go to Mellarks' without tipping your husband off." He says this as though he thinks Danny would tattle out of…. I don't know what exactly. Spite? Protectiveness of Belle? Regardless of whatever has transpired between all of us, I know my husband better than that.

Glancing furtively about, I make a quick, monumental decision. Everyone deserves to have a Toasting – no one, be you Merchant or Seam, feels properly married without it. Procuring my key from my dress, I hastily unlock the door and usher them both in.

"Come on. I'll take you down to the Telephone Room. It's a good place to hide."

The Telephone Room is a standard feature of every mansion in every Victors' Village in every district of Panem. Housed in the basement, it basically consists of a desk with a big red phone atop it, allowing any Victor a direct hotline to the Capitol. Danny and I have mostly used the space for storage; I never go in here, nor do I have any reason to.

I leave the lights off upstairs, just in case someone sees them from afar and becomes suspicious. But I do flick the pullstring of the simple bulb hanging from the Telephone Room's ceiling. Glen takes in the desk and red phone with shock.

"Whoa, the hell is this?"

"Part of a Victor's burden," I wave away. "Just whatever you do, don't touch that phone!" I turn back to the couple. "Stay here. Don't make a sound."

I dash back upstairs, racing for the dormant hearth in the sitting room. Groping in drawers, I find the matchbox, pluck a match and strike it, setting the fireplace ablaze. It only takes one nudge from the poker, and then I tear through the fridge, finding a slice of rye bread Danny brought home from work last week. I turn it over the spigot until both ends are sufficiently crisp. Toast in hand, I double back one last time to the fridge, grab the water pitcher and douse the flames. I know I'm leaving some evidence, and I just hope the night is dark enough so that no one notices the smoke going up the chimney. I thunder back downstairs, where Belle is seated in the desk chair, Glen behind her and massaging her shoulders soothingly.

"I took the liberty of Toasting the bread for you," I explain in a rush.

"That'll work," Glen shrugs. Then, in the presence of me as the only witness, my best friend and her true love shyly feed each other the bread, then exchange rings and vows. Leaning in, the couple kisses lightly and I smile softly in approval.

From upstairs, voices can be heard coming closer. Based on my hearing, it sounds like they are approaching the base of the hill leading into the Village. When the sound grows faint again, I deduce that Barnabus and his men are going to check down the mines beyond before circling back and searching the Village. We don't have much time.

"Is there any place you can go hide away for a few days?" I ask, wincing.

Luckily, Glen has a ready answer. "My daddy used to keep an old hunting cabin out in the woods, beyond the fence. I'm the only person who knows where it is."

"Can you get under the fence?" I prod.

"Easy as pie."

"Great," I say. I join the couple's hands together. "Take her there and wait it out. I'll find a way to signal you when everything blows over."

Glen's eyes become glassy and he kisses me on both cheeks. "Bless you, Maysilee." I blink, registering that this is the first time he's called me that.

I smile softly, though my voice remains serious. "Just be true. And Glen…. do whatever it takes to keep her safe." I hold his eyes. "Promise me."

He nods grimly. "OK," he rumbles. We hug, and then I hug Belle.

"Best. Maid of Honor. Ever," she whispers in my ear.

I let out something between a laugh and a happy sob. "I love you."

"Love you too…. sissy."

I lead the Everdeens back up to the first floor and ease out onto the front porch. I can see torchlights bobbing and weaving their way along the mines; I don't know if any of the men would actually brave going down one of the shafts to search, but I can't assume they will.

"All clear!" I hiss. "Go, go!" I wave my friends out of the Village and hustle them over to a gap under the fence that Glen points out to me.

The brave Seam miner wriggles under first, then coaches his new bride to follow him. They dash for the trees, and I circle back into the Village to watch as they reach the woods and safety. By the light of the moon, I see Glen lock eyes with me, then raise three fingers skyward, whistling out a tune. I copy him silently, marveling at how the mockingjays themselves echo his melody.

Shouts go up and I turn to see Barnabus and my father leading their posse into the Village. Daddy frowns. "Maysilee? I thought you were at the shop with Jonadab and…. Lucille…." His voice trails off as he follows my gaze, catching sight of Glen. My quasi-brother-in-law ducks into the trees and is gone.

"After him, boys!" Mr. Cartwright, the postmaster, hollers.

"No way!" Charlie Steelmark, who lost his son to the Games this past summer, shakes his head. "Them there are devil's woods. We'll never find them in there…."

Barnabus hollers with grief and rage, stamping his feet. My daddy displays a more quiet anger, but it's no less deadly as he turns to me slowly. "Young lady…. this is all your doing, isn't it?"

I stand my ground. "If you're meaning did I help them have their Toasting… yes, sir, I sure did – they love each other. That's all that matters."

Barnabus stifles a strange moan behind his hand. "My daughter…. My daughter…." he's muttering, half-crazed before howling into the wind. "BELLE!"

I try in vain to shush him. "Mr. Foley, leave them alone…. Leave them be!"

"Like _hell_ I will!"

Daddy is shaking his head with deep disappointment. "I should have known you would do something like this – after all, you had a taste for Seam once yourself, before you learned better."

My azure eyes nearly cloud over with thunderous rage. "Don't," I shake my head, jaw clenched tight. "Don't you _dare_ bring Haymitch into this!" I snap the threat viciously, hissing like a feral cat. "I did it because Belle is my best friend – always has been, always will be. I don't give a damn if her husband is Seam!"

Daddy glowers at me, and I wonder just how long it will be before he forgives me for my perceived transgression. Finally, he lifts a hand.

"Nothing more to be done about it now. Let's go, boys! Let's clear out!"

And the posse slumps, defeated, out of the Village, while I stare after them. Crossing to the rocking chair on my front porch, I sink heavily into it, the motion lulling me into an uneasy sleep.

The moon is high and full in the sky by the time Danny arrives with our son, and carries us both to bed.


	18. Fantasizing

**Chapter 18: Fantasizing**

Up here in the stands along the Avenue of Tributes, Brutus is eyeing me and trying to pretend his stare isn't judgmental as I bounce my infant son, Rye, in my arms. The chariot parade for the 57th Annual Hunger Games is about to begin, and I'm a nervous nilly over the prospects of my two tributes this year – both of them Seamers. Again. And also unusually young ones – the boy is 12. The girl is only 14.

It's gonna be another loss, probably even two quick cannons at the Cornucopia. I know it. But unlike some Victors I know, like the stoned-out crowd from District 6, I can't afford to give up so easily. That's why having my second-born here with me is so vital. He is keeping me calm just as much as I am keeping him content.

"The Capitol's no place for a baby, especially during Games season," Brutus rumbles.

I shoot my old mentor a half-hearted glare. "Rye is colic," I sniff, wiggling my finger playfully in my beautiful baby's face; he shrieks happily and tries to catch it in his fat little fist. He might be happy now, but I have a feeling he'll be wailing loud enough to wake the dead tonight in the penthouse suite, even while I try to prepare strategies for training and the interviews. Woody and Almond, my two tributes, have been good sports about it; Almond even helped me change Rye's diaper on the train, and laughed at how our escort Dolly turned her nose up at the smell.

"How old is he, anyway?"

"Three months," I gush. Danny and I had agreed to wait a couple of years before having another baby. Jonadab was a handful enough by himself, and he'll be turning 3 years old in a couple of weeks. "I just hope I get back to my other boys soon; Jonadab's birthday is next month, so these Games better not last weeks this year…."

"Don't worry, little darling – if Mitt's absolute clusterfuck from two years ago was anything to go by, the Games will be short bonanzas from now until the next Quarter Quell!" I wince at Brutus's reference. Two summers ago, District 6 landed their third Victor, but it was only by default since most of the field froze to death after being dumped in an arena in the middle of the Arctic. Mitt Compton managed to keep his blood pressure active just long enough to outlast the others. The Cornucopia bloodbath saw one of its lowest kill counts in decades; later, an avalanche buried much of the Career pack. The popularity of those Games sank like a stone, for by that time, the audience had been subjected to two weeks of cringe-worthy blandness and a ho-hum Victor. Illythia Bitter, the Head Gamemaker, was promptly fired. An absolute disaster.

In my arms, Rye begins to whimper, and I try bouncing him, to little avail. Brutus snorts. My glare is fiercer this time.

"If you say another word…."

"I'm not…."

"Only a bad person could ever have anything against babies!"

"Damn right," Cora Shutter grumbles, joining us in our row with some cracker-jacks and a tall glass of lemonade. "So, shut your trap, Barsetti. Think your tributes have a shot this year? Oh, wait – no, they don't, because you Careers have only racked up one win so far this decade!"

The bones in Brutus's hands crack as he clenches his fists, and his facial muscles look even tighter. "Cora, you can predict pretty well who's going to be the Victor just by checking out the tribute parade. There are always details to spot – little things most people don't notice." (Cora is frowning hard, and I don't fault her; she has more than two decades of experience over Brutus. To so openly insult her, the ex-Career must have a death wish).

But Brutus continues to point out the tributes as they pass in their chariots anyway, to cheers. He pulls stats from the close-up of their faces on the Jumbotron to back himself up. "The boy from 3 won't last a day; you can see how he's twitching – he's scared out of his mind! And not that boy from 7 – he's way too skinny." (He doesn't mention how District 7 has produced two Victors – Blight Gavin and Connor Murphy - out of the past five years). "Or your girl, Cora, she's…." Cora's girl, who can't be any older than fifteen, flashes on the Jumbotron. Brutus's voice trails off like he's in some kind of trance. "She's…."

I study his face intently, ignoring for the moment how Rye is squirming in my arms. "Brutus….?" My lips upturn into a bemused and curious smile.

"She's beautiful…." Brutus breathes, his voice sounding like it's no longer attached to his body.

"Are you OK?" I ask, finding that I am one tick away from bursting into laughter. Following my gaze, then Brutus's one filled with adoration and lust, Cora sizes up the situation in seconds and is not quite as amused. Suddenly, I find myself having to calm a squalling baby and fend off my rabid, fellow Quarter Quell Victor all at once.

"Cecelia's _15_ , you _pervert_! You stay away from her, you hear me?!"

"You bitch, Cora! Just because you've never had it good and rough - !"

Rye lets out a bloodcurdling wail, and I wrestle Cora back into her seat with one hand, the older woman fuming.

"Stop it, both of you!" I cry. "You're making a scene!" I glance up and down our row frantically, locking eyes with a Peacekeeper at the far end who actually seems uncertain as to whether or not he should approach. He finally does, presenting me with a slip of paper. I note with relief how it comes with no envelope, so this can't be a sponsor proposition for a one-night stand.

"Telegram for you, Ms. Donner."

I accept it wordlessly, cooing to Rye as I bounce him and my little baby makes a grab for the paper. A quick scan of the first few lines, and my face goes ashen.

" _Now_ what's wrong?" Brutus grouses, from where he has been watching me.

Tears are pricking at my eyes. "I…. this note is from my brother-in-law…. His father just passed away. He's now the new Mayor of Twelve. They're…. they're trying to throw together an inauguration, as soon as the Games are over." Slipping the telegram into my pocket, I cuddle Rye close and try to pay attention to President Snow's speech, but it's futile.

Poor Merle…. and Kaydilyn…. I hope they're ready for what is to come.

And even though I have only risked a few clandestine conversations with Chaff, I know my sister's father-in-law's death just made my task of eventually getting Twelve to rebel a whole helluva lot harder….

These better be a short Games.

* * *

I barely make it back to Twelve in time for Jonadab's birthday; tragically, I miss being home for Danny's and my 5th wedding anniversary entirely. I give my husband quite the round of lovemaking to make up for it. Cora's girl, Cecelia Rheys, had to give us quite a show, scratching and clawing her way to the Crown over three, grueling weeks. What is it about District 8 Victors that they are so slow in eliminating the competition?

The minute I set foot back on District 12 soil, Cray and his men set about erecting a stage for the Inauguration of a new Mayor, to be conducted as soon as humanly possible. Merle, my brother-in-law, has already been on the job for close to a month, and handled it as well as anybody could.

On a ridiculously hot day in late summer, Merle stands before Lucius Rosen, the District Clerk, for the swearing-in.

"Are you prepared to take the oath, Mr. Undersee?"

"I am." Merle looks as ready as he'll ever be to meet his destiny.

"Raise your right hand and repeat after me…."

Standing on the platform, I nestle Rye against me where he's fallen asleep on my shoulder. At my left, Danny is holding little Jonadab's hand and whispering to him to be nice and quiet while we watch Uncle Merle give his speech. On my right, Kaydilyn leans into me and whispers:

"You know, this isn't the only earth-shattering news we've gotten."

"Why? What do you mean?" I turn my head to her absently. Kaydilyn is sporting the most luminous grin I have ever seen from her.

"Kaydie….?"

"Are you ready to be an Auntie? I'm pregnant; she's due in February."

"…. So help you Panem?"

"So help me Panem!" Merle finishes strong.

The clapping and cheering from the citizens of Twelve drown out my happy shriek as Kaydilyn and I embrace. To the outside observer, everyone thinks it is just because we have a new Mayor and First Lady. They'll all learn soon enough that there will be a First Daughter as well.

* * *

The doorbell rings on a bitingly cold winter's evening just before the Winter Festival. I set down some correspondence that Woof Barton sent me about arrangements for the Victory Tour, when he and Cora will bring their new Victor through Twelve just after the first of the year. Work can wait. Tonight is about celebrating with family and friends.

I rush into the foyer to answer the door, Danny right behind me.

"Hey!" we greet excitedly, hugging Kaydilyn and Merle and helping them shuck off their coats. The blood rushes to my head suddenly and I place a hand along the small of my back to steady myself, while with the other, I rub my 4-month swollen belly. Danny and I had not intended to get pregnant so soon after Rye; it must have happened in that ridiculously fun fuck fiesta we had in the shower right after I came home from last summer's Games.

Merle leads the way into our fancy kitchen, pausing to ruffle Jonadab's hair as he makes silly faces at Rye in his high chair. He frowns in confusion. "Place is set for eight," he observes.

"Oh, the Everdeens are coming," I state, hanging Kaydie's mink coat on the rack.

Merle cocks an intrigued but neutral eyebrow. I can't read the expression on my twin sister's face while she waddles over to an empty place at the table.

"Will Glen be with her?" The question is aired measuredly and diplomatically.

"Yes…." I say slowly.

Kaydilyn nods. "How lovely." I don't detect any malice in her tone, and I smile softly, daring to hope. My sister and Belle had a falling out after the latter wed Glen Everdeen. But I have still kept in touch with my best friend. Belle had written me a few weeks ago asking if she could see me; she had conveyed she had a surprise for me. I had dashed off a reply inviting her and Glen to Winter Festival Eve dinner; Danny had been perfectly content with the idea, when I asked him.

A brisk knock sounds at the door, and I turn from the stove, wiping my hands on a tea towel. "That'll be them." I dash into the foyer and open the door to find my grinning best friend….

…. Her hands cupped around a belly as swolen as mine.

I gape for just a moment before letting out a happy squeal. Belle and I embrace, tears in our eyes as we jump up and down, dancing around in a circle. When we break apart, I draw back to examine her.

"Let me look at you…." I draw both hands to my mouth, the tears slipping down my cheeks. "Oh…. you're beautiful! You're a vision, Belley! Is it a boy or a girl?"

Belle beams. "It's a girl. You?"

I pat my tummy. "Another boy for me." I had been a little disappointed – I had desperately hoped, for this last one, that Danny and I would be blessed with a daughter. Danny said he didn't mind either way – we would love him just as fiercely as we love Rye and Jonadab. "He's due in May."

"So is she!" Lacing our fingers together, we squeal again as we realize our babies will be born within weeks, possibly even within days, of each other.

"Oh! Oh, wouldn't it be so incredible if our little ones fell in love one day and got married?" Belle chitters to me excitedly.

"Now, honey, settle down! – Our children can decide in their own time once they get here. Who knows? They might not be able to stand each other! Besides, matchmaking is so passé, even in a place like this." Glen Everdeen dances around his wife to peck me on the cheek in greeting. "Congratulations, Maysie. Belle and I were thrilled to hear that you and Danny were expecting again so soon."

I smile gently. "I'm glad, Glen." Turning my head, I call over my shoulder. "Dannel, come quickly!"

"I'm coming…. I'm coming…." And my husband emerges, huffing and puffing, onto the front stoop. Upon seeing Belle, he sways to a stop and stares for a moment at her pregnant stomach. Belle smiles weakly.

"Surprise."

For a moment, there is silence. Then, with a roar of delight, Danny is rushing forward to embrace his ex-girlfriend and even shakes Glen's hand.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Not that I had ever doubted my husband, of course. Even so, the past is in the past…. and soon, in the not-too-distant future, three different little families will be complete.


	19. A New Generation

**Chapter 19: A New Generation**

From flat on my back on the sitting room couch, I can hear my husband talking to the young Peacekeeper who has been tasked with patrolling the Victors' Village. He's a kind, eager young man who has even taken to bringing our mail up from the post box planted at the entrance to the Village, and always says hello to Jonadab and Rye.

"Thank you very much, Officer…. Yes, she is due any day, and still looks so beautiful! We're proud as can be! Yes, of course…. Many thanks, Officer. Goodbye." I hear the door close and a moment later, Danny emerges into the sitting room, wiping a hand across his brow. "Man alive, it's hot!" It's early May, but the temperature today has spiked to over 90 degrees, bringing tidings of a barnburner of a summer to come. Smiling wanly, I try to look up at him over the bloated swell of my stomach. Danny bends down to nuzzle me; to show that I am not completely hopeless, I crane my neck and meet him halfway in a gentle kiss. Beaming at me, Danny rifles through the mail that Private Gregg brought up. A shriek comes from the direction of the kitchen, and Danny steps away momentarily to call into the next room. "Boys, boys, less noise, please. Jonadab, be gentle with your brother – Mommy is trying to rest!" I smile at my husband adoringly, observing him as he takes the letter opener and slices through one envelope. Extracting the contents, his eyes sweep the first few lines before he smiles.

"It's from Glen. Belle gave birth – a healthy baby girl!"

In my excitement, I try to sit up, but fail, wincing. "When?!"

Danny checks. "Yesterday, May 8th. Glen must have dashed this off quickly – wants to notify everyone." He keeps reading down to the bottom of the letter, and then turns to me with pride. "He and Belle want us to be the godparents."

I whimper emotionally. "Oh, _yes_! Write them back and say yes!"

"All right." Danny laughs. Setting aside one page, his grin broadens. "Glen even included a picture!" and passes me a small Polaroid. A tiny baby with Glen's hair color and eyes, but Belle's Merchant facial features, frowns precociously at the camera. I cannot help but giggle, even as my eyes turn glassy. "Oh…. she's _beautiful_ …." I breathe. "She's gonna break a lot of hearts…."

"Yes," Danny chuckles low. "Yes, she will." He smirks. "She might even shatter this little one's heart." And he strokes my swollen stomach. When I blink at him, my husband only smirks. "Don't pretend I didn't hear you and Belle playing matchmaker with our own children at Wintertime. All good things in their own course."

I smile at him, amused, reaching up to kiss him again. As we're breaking apart, however, I cringe again as a pain shoots through my belly. My hand jumps to my womb. "Oh my gosh… oh my gosh, the baby's coming!"

Danny jumps back, eyes wide as he watches the couch cushions become stained with fluid. "OK, OK…. Um – the boys. Send them to my parents?"

"Mama and Daddy are closer," I get through tight teeth.

"Well, I can't leave you to drop them off!" Danny cries.

I smile grimly. "Good boy. You're learning." When Rye was born, Danny thought nothing else could possibly go wrong if he popped out for 'five minutes' to head down the hill and pass Jonadab off to his mom and dad at the bakery. I tore my naginata off the wall, threw it at his head, and thankfully missed. Had I not literally been in labor, my arena instincts might not have been dulled enough to prevent me from murdering the man I love.

Thinking fast, Danny lunges for our landline and knocks the phone off the wall so hard the cradle chips slightly. I try to sit up again and scream.

"What…. what are you doing?"

"I'm calling Merle at the Justice Building. He can swing by in that fancy government automobile of his. Kaydilyn can manage on her own for a couple of minutes." For the past three months since giving birth herself, my twin sister has been joined at the hip to our new niece, Madge.

I nod, managing to twist my body into a sitting position and get my feet on the floor. "Excellent plan." Another contraction nearly sends me crashing to the floor, and I howl in agony.

Danny glances at me, face turning white, turning back to bark at our brother-in-law on the phone. "And hurry, Merle!" He slams the receiver down, and scoops me into his arms, carrying me to our bedroom. On the way, he calls to our boys: "Jonadab, take Rye and go wait out on the front stoop. Uncle Merle's coming to pick you up!" Our eldest has the good sense to obey.

I feel dizzy. My vision is coming in and out. All I can think of is that with each problem solved, another one takes its place – chief among them being that the only Healer and midwife in District 12 is currently flat on her back, recovering from giving birth herself. As I feel the mattress of our bed greet me, I clutch to my husband all the tighter. "Don't leave me, Danny!" I weep.

"I'm not leaving you," he promises bravely. "You want me to call your folks?"

Whimpering, I nod. Pushing my sweaty, blonde bangs back from my forehead, he kisses my lips fiercely. "I'll be back." And he tears down the stairs to get back on the landline, and check on the boys to see if Merle has arrived.

Five minutes later, my husband is back, reporting that Mama and Daddy have been informed, and that Merle picked up the boys in the interim.

The sun sets in the west, bringing on evening. Deep night quickly follows. By the wee hours of the morning on May 10th, I am gripping the bedsheets in my fists and arching my back as I cry out in debilitating pain. Danny has been very conservative about what and how much of certain Capitol drugs he feeds me from our medicine cabinet. All the while, he takes each and every abuse I throw at him.

"This is the last one! I mean it, Dannel Mellark – I am never letting you touch me again – OH, MOTHERFUCK!" We Donner women can be known to have dirty, dirty mouths and a few more choice words unworthy of a Victor spew from my lips. Danny gamely catches them all.

The skyline is beginning to fade from navy blue to light grey when Danny announces, "OK….. I can seem him crowning! PUSH, Maysie! I love you!"

Snarling and with a mighty shout, I give the greatest heave I can muster. I didn't feel even this drained of strength in the finale of my Games as my third baby slides out of me.

He is big, strong and squalling, with tufts of blonde hair already on the top of his head, forming a sort of crown. His eyes are scrunched tight against the harsh glare of our nightstand light, but I predict that when they open, they will be the most brilliant blue, like both his parents.

Danny washes our youngest son in the bathroom sink and then crosses back to me, the baby swaddled and he passes him off to me.

"Oh….." I breathe, taking my baby boy in my arms and rocking him. "He's _gorgeous_ ….. Hi, Peeta. Hi, Peeta Haymitch. Mommy and Daddy have been waiting to meet you…."

"Peeta Haymitch?"

I glance up at my husband's query, and nod. I had gone back and forth on possible middle names for this baby for a long time, and finally decided to honor my first, lost love. I've never brought it up with Danny (though I probably should have), because I was afraid of what he might say.

So I am floored when the man I married declares: "I like it."

I cock a ruffled eyebrow. "You don't mind?"

"Of course not." He smiles at me meaningfully. "Anybody who loves that strongly once can do it again. I've seen it." And his gaze becomes besotted with love.

Beaming, my breath hitching with tears, I yank his face down to mine and kiss him thoroughly. "I love you," I murmur, voice strangely hoarse.

"I know."

* * *

Dolly, and my two Merchant tributes (a first for me) are waiting in the armored car to take us down to Donner Train Station (renamed after me following my Victory). We have to depart for the opening of the 58th Hunger Games in fifteen minutes.

Another first for me is needing to say goodbye to all of my children. Specifically, to say goodbye to my newborn son.

I was still pregnant with Jonadab when leaving for the Games four years ago, just before he was born. And when Rye was a newborn, his colera allowed me to keep him with me in the Capitol, though I did have to put in a medical request for a temporary passport, signed off by President Snow. At not quite two months old, Peeta will find it hard to be apart from me…. and I from him.

"OK: breastmilk bottles are in the freezer. You know all their bedtimes, and – Mmmm…." I purr into Danny's lips as he unexpectedly cuts me off with a kiss. I melt into it for a moment before drawing away. "What was that for?"

"To shut you up. Don't worry," Danny smiles at me. "We'll be fine. You be good now, silly woman."

I smirk at him. "You too. I won't be long." Mashing his face in my hands, I kiss Danny again, and reaching out to my baby boy, I tickle his chin. "Be good for Daddy now, Peeta – won't be long!" And I reluctantly turn away to leap into the armored car.

Once on the train, I enter the dining car, nodding to my tributes. Sweeping the table, I blink when I see a young lady of probably 20 seated with Dolly at the table. "Oh. I wasn't aware we had a guest."

"Oh, yes, Miss Donner, actually, that is something I wanted to talk to you about." Dolly rises from her chair, and the young lady follows her.

I turn to my two Merchant charges. "We just need to discuss a few things. Be back in a few." We three ladies step over into the next car. Dolly then introduces the younger gal.

"Maysilee, this is Euphemia Trinket."

The young lady curtseys. "Call me Effie."

"She'll be shadowing me over the course of the Games."

"An escort-in-training?" I guess intuitively. "But what for?"

"Well," Dolly starts in, smiling sadly. "I wanted to inform you earlier and in writing, but what with the papyrus shortages in Seven…. I'm retiring at the end of this summer, Miss Donner. Effie here will be shadowing me to take over the position."

Surprisingly, I feel my eyes fill with tears. Some of my more rebellious Victor friends say it's never a good idea to get close to our escorts – Capitol sheep, Chaff calls them – but after 25 years with our district and close to a decade of that time with me, Dolly has become like a second mother to me. "Oh, Dolly, you know we'll all miss you."

"I know," she murmurs. "And I just have to say – Miss Donner, out of all the Victors…. you're my favorite." She hugs me warmly before turning back for the dining car. Effie now steps forward and presents me with a familiar white envelope, perfumed by roses. I turn it over in my hand and only when my new escort is gone do I let out a frustrated sigh. Another sponsor to fuck me and have his way with me…. and just after I've givien birth, too.

* * *

"Fuck, baby…." Aurelius Cross groans, and we thrusts into me all the harder.

"I'm not your baby…." I mutter under my breath. Even if I shouted it, though, he couldn't hear me over the sweaty slapping of our skin and the thumps of the dresser against which I'm braced. I stare at myself in the mirror and try to imagine that it is Danny or even Haymitch screwing me as I shift my wide stance, spreading my ass cheeks further to let this sponsor take me from behind.

Another fierce slam, a weakened second, then a feeble third before Aurelius ejaculates inside me with a groan. I slowly stand and pull my skirts back up over my hips; behind me in the mirror, I can see Aurelius zipping up his pants around his flattening and flabby erection. Turning to him, I allow him to kiss me on the cheek in farewell – hopefully, letting him screw me like this will make him charitable enough to fund my tributes past the Bloodbath for once. He forks over a wad of sesterces.

"Go through each bill – make sure I didn't miscount in my payment," he whispers in my ear. I frown at the unusual generosity. Capitol sponsors aren't known for being conscientious about their money. As Aurelius leaves the hotel room, I thumb through each and every Capitol note until I come across a blank piece of paper, folded lengthwise to look like another sesterce bill.

Bowing my head low, I fish the folded paper out of my cash and open it. There is a jumble of letters and numbers written on there, addressed to MY DISTRICT 12 QUEEN.

Queen…. It's a clue. A chessboard cipher.

Once I get back to the penthouse suite, I steal into my private chambers and sit down at the provided writing desk to decode it, drawing up an 8 by 8 square and placing one letter into each square. It's a message from Chaff, and the final intelligence reads:

NEW UP-AND-COMER GAMEMAKER BROUGHT ON – ONE OF US. WANTS TO EVENTUALLY REACH THE TOP. STAY THE COURSE. BURN THIS ASAP.

Scanning the message again, I toss it into the fire. I frown, rubbing my temples. I have nothing new to reply to my District 11 friend. The people in Twelve are quite content with my brother-in-law as Mayor. And with how drunk he is, Cray has become comfortable enough in what he views as a cushy assignment that he's largely left us alone, even allowing an illegal black market to flourish in the Seam largely unchecked.

We may be plodding steadily down the road towards revolution – on a date to be determined – but I don't know if I can get Twelve to catch up…..

* * *

I step off the train onto District 12 soil disappointed, but at the same time, more buoyant than I have been in past years. Another loss, both tributes dead…. though, encouragingly, my girl rode the Cornucopia bloodbath gauntlet well. She even made the Final Eight – the first District 12 tribute to do so since Haymitch, Beech and I all accomplished the feat together. Tragically, she was hacked to death by the boy from 10 and eventual Victor, Roan Tully, not long after.

It is moments like this that I wish Victors were provided cars, among all the other luxuries we are allowed. I could always pay a call to Merle and ask him to drive me up to the Village, but I don't want to bother him; no doubt he is busy. But I am so anxious to get home to my boys, that I begin speed-walking through Town with a laser-focus on reaching the Seam and eventually the hill beyond.

I am so focused on my power-walking, in fact, that I am not paying attention to where I am going until I bump into a broad man coming out of Cartwright the postmaster's shop.

"Oh, excuse me, I'm sorry…." I blink rather rapidly upon seeing who it is. "Oh, hi, Mr. Foley!"

Barnabus Foley greets me politely, but curtly. I haven't seen my dad's old friend in a couple of years; I had heard from Daddy that Barnabus has begun to step away from the Apothecary, letting his son – Belle's brother – take over the family business. From the way Barnabus only engages with me cordially, he clearly has still not forgiven me for my intercession on behalf of his daughter's marriage.

"Congratulations on becoming a grandfather!" I chirp happily. "Belley forwarded us a birth announcement and picture – I think it signaled me to go into labor with my littlest one myself!" I laugh.

Barnabus doesn't join in on the mirth. My own grin fades, becoming strained. "She's pretty, isn't she? Katniss?" I prod, prompt.

Barnabus is now pointedly refusing to look at me. "I wouldn't know," he finally manages coolly. "I haven't seen her."

I nearly reel back in shock. Here he is, with his first grandchild already rapidly approaching three months old, and…. "So you have yet to meet the first-born of your own daughter? Your grandbaby?" My face roils with disgust, and my voice freezes into ice. "Excuse me…." And I dash past him so he can't see my tears of rage and grief.

My swirling emotions fly me back to my mansion and my sweet little family in record time. Danny gamely holds me as I cry my eyes out, seated at our kitchen table. He passes me a plate of cheese buns – my favorite, and fresh from the oven, which I eat glumly. At first, my patient and understanding husband thinks my grief is about the Games – it was a harder year for me than most, with a tribute in the Final Eight – but then I explain to him about encountering Belle's father in the street.

"How… how could he be so heartless as to not want to know his own granddaughter?" I sob. "Panem above, I feel so horrible for Belle, and for Glen…. Poor little Katniss…."

Danny steals an arm around me. "She'll have plenty of other people to love her. I'm sorry to say that bigotry can be a very powerful force, even around here. Class warfare has always been present in Twelve, and it isn't like the Peacekeepers have tried to do anything to stop it…." His speech is bordering very close to seditious, and I shush him, warning him to be careful. With my Victor's mansion being bugged, we are being recorded and watched all the time.

It's hard enough with Chaff's pressuring of me, not to mention the major conflicts of interest I have, being related by marriage to the Mayor, our district's Capitol representative. An almost lulling Peacekeeper regime that pretty much leaves us in peace. But if we can't even get people in Twelve to unify despite class lines, so long as the Barnabus Foleys of the world exist…. well, what hope do we have of instigating a rebellion anyway?

I feel my husband pushing little Peeta into my arms, and smiling through a sob, I cuddle my baby close. I try to imagine a world better than this one. Where there are no Hunger Games and people do not care where you were born or who you marry.

A world where Danny, our children and I could be safe.


	20. Love at First Sight

**Chapter 20: Love at First Sight**

"Huhhh….. Uhhhh….. Ermmmmmm….. Oh, fuck…. That's it, yes, yes, Danny! Fuck me harder!"

The full moon is bathing us in an ethereal glow, as, resting my palms lightly on his chest, I bounce up and down on my husband. The squelching sound of our sweaty bodies slapping together in heat is music to my ears. Danny had woken me up in the middle of the night to have sex, palming my breasts through my nightdress until the pebbling of my nipples caused me to awaken with a hiss.

At first, I had tried to beg off – being mother to three young boys all under the age of 8 can be extremely exhausting – but my lover had insisted, slipping a finger, then two, into my dampening pussy until I let out a huff. Rolling over, I had swung one creamy thigh across his hips to straddle him.

Now, we are almost chest-to-chest, my boobs jiggling in Danny's face as he tastes them while we make love. We do our best to be quiet, for the sake of our three little boys, but the way that Danny is thrusting up into me is causing me to moan louder and louder. His tongue lavishes my nipple and I throw back my head with a groan.

"Harder…." I breathe. "Faster…. Faster…." My breathing is coming in rough gasps and Danny growls, palms gripping my hips as he jerks up into me. I have to bite down on my lip until I draw blood to keep from crying out with a wail.

"I'm…. cumm-ing…" I snarl and then my cunt clenches. "Fuck, Dannel!" I orgasm all over him, trembling. A moment later, I feel him shoot up into my vagina and my drenched body strewns across him, utterly spent.

Locked in post-coital bliss, the only sound that of our breathing returning to normal, it is not difficult to hear the sharp rap from all the way downstairs. Still, for a few moments, I pretend I didn't hear it. Perhaps it is a stray tree branch rustling against a windowpane in the boys' room.

When the knock persists, however, I groan, this time out of annoyance, and roll off my husband, softly kissing his lips.

"Don't worry," I croon. "Whoever it is, I'm going to take their head off with my naginata…." My sparkling, azure eyes drift down to where his manliness is still at attention, a vein in his cock throbbing. "And then I'm going to come back up here and finish you off with a good suck."

Danny moans and steals his arms about my waist, trying to pull me against him, but I squirm away. "Patience," I coo, brushing my lips across his again. "I'll be back."

Adjusting my nightdress over my bare breasts once more, I fumble for a bathrobe over the hook and steal that around myself too, padding down the stairs and across the first floor to the foyer. In my sex-dazed and sleep-deprived state, I forget to arm myself with the good old naginata on the far wall. I decide my thoroughly annoyed face will have to be my weapon of choice, as I yank the door open and scowl at the person who dares to stand on my front stoop in the middle of the night.

The woman staring back at me appears to be about my age, with beautiful and unblemished, russet-colored skin. Despite the glow of the lantern she holds aloft, I can tell her flesh is not the olive tone of Glen's. Still, one look into her stormy grey eyes and I can deduce immediately this woman is Seam.

I cock a displeased eyebrow. "You're brave, to hike all the way up Victors' Hill and disturb a sleeping family in the middle of the night."

To her credit, this woman does not shrink away in fear, merely tips her head in deference. "Apologies for waking you, Miss Donner – Mrs. Mellark, excuse me," she correct herself, "but Glen Everdeen sent me. His wife is in labor."

Any lingering anger towards this woman – the old adage of don't shoot the messenger really does exist for a reason – vanishes in the next instant, as the rouge color in my cheeks from making love to my husband drains away, leaving my porcelain skin ashen. "Belley?" I had known my best friend was expecting another girl, but…. "It's too early! She still has a few weeks left!"

The russet-colored woman shakes her head. "Not anymore, I'm afraid. Come. It's an at-home birth; the Everdeen place is not far into the Seam, a stone's-throw from the mines."

Perfect. I can always see the mines clearly from the top of the hill. Reaching back into the foyer, I help myself to Danny's fleece coat to keep out the winter's chill. Thank goodness the camera crews left the day before last, following the Victor of the 61st Hunger Games – Crystal Flute of District 1 – like hounds. I briefly debate racing back up the stairs and telling my husband he'll have to wait a little longer for that promised blowjob; I'm going out. I decide against it – I don't want to risk waking the boys any further, and truth be told, my husband has probably already drifted off again. It's just as well: when I do get back, I'll take him deep in my mouth and suck until he awakens. Payment in kind for how he woke me up for sex.

Closing the door and locking it behind me, I follow this young woman down the hill and into the dilapidated shantytowns of the Seam. We pass by the old Abernathy place – now abandoned – and I turn my face away, wiping at my eyes. The biting cold nearly freezes the tears to my cheeks.

At my side, the young woman's face almost swims through the air as the lantern bobs ahead, its light casting shadows on her face that make her out to be almost ghoulish. Her expression is grave, no-nonsense, but her voice is friendly enough as she introduces herself, "I'm Hazelle Hawthorne. Glen Everdeen is best friends with my husband."

I nod, almost ready to introduce myself, then think better of it. This woman knows who I am; I've been a Victor for over a decade, not to mention a regular presence at both my parents' candy shop and the bakery owned by my in-laws. "I've been best friends with Glen's wife since we were small."

Hazelle nods absently. "Belle is a lovely lady. Her Healing remedies have been a godsend for us Seam folk."

I nod, voice tentative as I float. "I'm…. I'm glad to see she's made some friends." I sigh. "Apart from my husband and I…. and my sister, though that reconciliation was fairly recent…. most everyone we knew in Town has disowned her."

Hazelle turns to glance at me, expression beclempt. "Her arrival certainly caused quite a stir, after she and Glen married. It took a while for people to trust her, at first." She turns left, pushing back the latch on a picket gate that swings in on only one hinge. We are in the direct shadow of District 12's largest coal mine, not two yards further down the path. "And we're here."

I am ashamed to say that in the nearly six years they have been married, I have never once set foot in my best friend's new home. Whenever Belle, Glen, Danny and I have gotten together, we have hosted them on the hill in our mansion at Victors' Village. The small, two-story house isn't in disrepair like the deserted Abernathy estate, but it is not the lap of luxury either. The sparse lawn grass hasn't shot up tall enough to be considered overgrown, but it is well on its way. Ascending the porch, Hazelle knocks urgently on the door, which swings open after a moment so that the lantern can bathe in its glow the face of a man with jet-black hair and the stubble of a pepper-grey beard. Upon spying me, he glowers at me mistrustfully.

"This house is crammed enough without you being here, _Victor_ ," he spits. I cock a ruffled eyebrow at his rudeness; Hazelle, for her part, appears mortified.

" _Clay_!"

"Clay Hawthorne, shut your trap and sit down! That's my sister-in-law you're shouting at." A booming voice carries its way through the foyer and Clay stands aside for Glen to greet me with a hug and kiss on the cheek before bringing me furtively into his humble home. We follow him up some rickety old stairs to a second-floor landing. At the door directly before us, an amber glow cracks out from under the doorframe. I can hear painful cries coming from inside.

"How is she?"

"She had an easier time of it bringing our first bundle of joy into the world, and that's the God's-honest truth." Never, not even on his hasty and danger-fraught wedding night, have I ever heard Glen Everdeen sound so frightened.

At the far end of the hall, more amber glow casts slices of light across our faces, also backlighting the silhouette of a tiny figure, clutching a teddy bear.

"Daddy? How's Mama?" The little girl – but two days older than my youngest son – has her one thumb drifting close to her mouth, though she refrains from sucking on it nervously long enough to ask the question. An impossibly soft expression comes over Glen's ruggedly handsome features and he crosses in three quick strides to his daughter, picking her up and nuzzling her close.

"It's all right, Katniss, little root. Mummy is just doing her best to welcome your little sister. And hey, look…." And he turns both of them in my direction, pointing even as Katniss buries her face shyly into his chest. "I brought a visitor. Your Auntie is here. Auntie Maysilee."

Katniss's doe grey eyes peek out at me warily. "H-hello, Auntie," she mumbles, remembering her manners. I beam at my goddaughter tenderly. I've only ever seen Katniss a few times since she was born – mostly when Glen will stop by the bakery with her and I've been working the ovens in the back. Dannel always slips her a sugar cookie for free when he knows his mother – who can be a bit stingy – isn't looking. One of these days, I will have to invite her up to play with my boys, provided I can get Rye to behave; he can play a bit too roughly for even his brothers' tastes.

"Hello, Katniss," I coo. "My goodness, you've gotten so big, you're practically a district lady. Would you like to come with me to see Mama? I'm sure she has been asking for you."

I am quite sure that Belle has been using whatever voice she has to yell obscenities at everyone in sight – I did quite a bit of cursing in my day, having gone through labor thrice myself.

Katniss nods meekly and allows her daddy to carry her towards me and we all enter the room together.

Belle is propped up by what is likely every single pillow that could be found around the simple house. She turns her head, face easing into besotted love.

"Katty, dear…." she beckons to her little one, and Glen sets Katniss down on the edge of the bed. Glancing past her, Belle actually manages a drained grin. "Maysie…. Glen promised me he'd fetch you."

I pull up a chair to her bedside, clutching her clammy hand in my own. "I'm here, Belley. Sisters, remember?"

Belle beams sentimentally, then nods to an attendant – an aging crone who must have been the closest thing they could summon in a midwife, at this time of night. "Greasy Sae, bring her here to me."

The old woman passes a pink bundle into Belle's arms, and my best friend turns the crook of her arm outward, towards her daughter. "Katniss, darling… there's someone I want you to meet."

For a moment, Katniss glances back to me. I give her an encouraging nod and a smile, and she turns back to the little squirming thing in her mother's arms, peeking over the pink flaps in the blanket. Craning my neck as well, I am floored to see tufts of blonde hair – even more homespun golden in shade than my Danny's and my Peeta's. Teeny lashes flutter, and I glimpse blue eyes…. blue as a summer sky….

If anyone in Town saw this child absent her father, they would swear she was Merchant. Even this baby's skin coloring is identical to Belle's.

Belle is beaming from ear-to-ear. "It's Primrose." Scanning the room, I can see Glen sagging against the doorframe in abject relief; behind him, Clay and Hazelle Hawthorne are craning to get a better look, obviously yearning to enter the bedroom proper but uncertain.

Katniss peers down at baby Primrose, then back up at her mommy, before silently holding out her arms. In her smoky eyes is the silent asking of a question. Nodding eagerly, Belle passes her youngest to her eldest with a warning to "Mind her head."

Katniss bounces the little thing, staring in abject wonder, before tightening her grip covetously. The baby squirms a little and whimpers, but doesn't cry out. "Mine!" Katniss chirps.

We all burst out into chuckles. Clay steps into the room and pumps Glen's hand. Hazelle flits over to the bed and she and Katniss exchange a glance as they both study the infant together.

"Hazelle, would you be godmother?" Glen asks, heartfelt. He smiles at me apologetically - as if he needs to! "I'd ask you again, Maysilee, but…."

"It's fine," I shake my head, stealing an arm around Katniss. "I've already got a goddaughter anyway." Katniss stares up into my loving smile, blinking owlishly, before hesitantly smiling back. I kiss the crown of her chestnut hair.

The navy blue sky is only just beginning to turn as grey as my goddaughter's eyes when I set out for home. I steal into Danny's and my room to find my husband fast asleep, still half-naked from the waist down. Smirking impishly, I crawl over to him and put my lips around him, taking him deep into my throat before I suck.

My husband awakens to quite the Good Morning, and jovially lets me pleasure him until he cums in my mouth.

* * *

About a year later, I am standing in the school play-yard while I fuss over Peeta's little suit and hand him his lunchpail.

"OK, now you be nice and quiet during Circle Time or whatever activity Teacher has you doing. Mind your manners, and always use your inside voice," I remind him.

Peeta nods dutifully. "Yes, Mommy."

I beam at him wetly. "That's my best boy." Kissing his forehead, I have to fight to tamp down the lump in my throat; if I let it loose, it will turn into a sob. Standing behind us, Danny is scanning the crowd of parents' and kids' faces before I see him focus in on one and nod to me.

"Guess whose first day of school is also today."

Turning, I follow his gaze. The Everdeen family is in the corner of the play-yard, Belle cradling a sleeping, year-old Primrose. My goddaughter, Katniss, is fearfully clutching her father's hand and scanning the other kids warily.

Chancing a peek at my youngest son, I am shocked to find him literally gawping at my best friend's family – specifically, on the little girl holding Glen's hand. He's completely transfixed; he can't take his eyes off her.

"Peeta, close your mouth," I chide gently. "You'll catch flies." He obeys, clamping his jaw shut. Danny seems more amused by the sight, kneeling at Peeta's side and nodding in the Seam family's direction. He's whispering something in our baby boy's ear, and I have to praise my husband for remembering that it's rude to point.

"See that little girl? Her mother is dear friends with me and Mommy."

"Really?" Peeta breathes, enraptured.

"Uh-huh. You wanna go talk to her?"

My son bobs his head like a bobblehead toy, and a distant memory, of little Gilla Callan (now more than a decade in her grave) doing the same thing after we attacked Brutus, flashes to the surface. Slowly, we float over to the Everdeen family.

"Fancy seeing you here," Danny cracks.

Belle smiles softly at him. "Hello, Danny."

Glen shakes his hand amicably. "How's business, Dannel?"

Peeta has reverted back to staring at Katniss. Now smiling myself at the adorable sight, I surreptitiously nudge him with my foot.

"Peeta? Would you like to say hello?"

My baby jerks startlingly, but remembers his manners. "Hello. I'm Peeta. I'm going to marry you."

We all freeze: I lock eyes with Glen, who thankfully seems deeply amused (and perhaps a little impressed) by my son's boldness. Danny and Belle glance at each other, before letting out awkward chuckles. As for my son's intended bride, she is blushing, but her expression is also puzzled, as if she doesn't quite know what the word married means. Perhaps she doesn't; she is only five, after all… yet, Peeta does, and he sounds so sure, that I find myself almost accepting the declaration. Like it is fate. Destiny. I recall Belle and I fantasizing, while we were pregnant together, about the babies in our wombs growing up and one day getting married. I find that old saying of my own mother ringing true: Be careful what you wish for.

It may not happen, but if it does, I do know that I would be content with having my goddaughter become my daughter-in-law.

Glen chuckles. "Many happy returns. When's the Toasting, my boy?"

Peeta tilts his neck all the way back to look up at his future father-in-law with a toothy grin. "I turn 6 next spring. Could we have it then?"

We all laugh again; Katniss awkwardly shifts from foot to foot, finally tugging at her father's shirtsleeve. Glen smiles at her, nodding. "Well, we'll talk details later, Peeta. Right now, I think you and my daughter had better get to class. Would you like to walk with us?"

Peeta nods eagerly while turning back to beam at Katniss (anything to remain near her) who still seems flustered. Taking Glen's free hand, he allows the man to escort both children into the marble building.

"Glenny, Primrose and I will wait for you by the gate!" Belle calls.

"That's fine, dearest!" Glen casts over his shoulder. Soon, Danny and I are left alone in the play-yard. We stand there even past the final bells chiming, and Glen hustling out of the building, granting us a quick wave as he makes for the front gate.

I dash for the schoolhouse, ducking under the expansive windows that look into the assembly hall.

"Maysie!" Danny laughs as he follows me to hide under the windowsill. "What are you doing?"

"I can't help it," I strangle out, my voice teary. "I can't just leave him here!"

"You did for Jonadab and Rye. This is part of growing up. If we don't leave him now, we never will. It's his first day of school – let him explore for himself."

"Oh, sure – what else does he possibly need to learn?" I retort sarcastically. "He proposed marriage before he's had a chance to learn his ABCs!"

Danny just laughs. "Well, we Mellark men have never been known to do things in order."

I wrinkle my nose at my husband, with a bemused frown. "We did, thank Panem."

"Not what I meant!" he laughs. Peeking over the sill, he shushes me. "Listen!"

A crystalline alto floats out through the glassy panes to us. Peering inside, we can see Katniss standing up onstage before an entire school assembly, singing the traditional Valley Song:

"Down in the valley, valley so low…. Late in the evening, hear the Train blow…."

If her looks can break hearts, her voice – perfect like Glen's – will do just as much damage. Indeed, it appears to already have.

"There!" Danny points, interrupting my thoughts, and my eyes follow his finger. Like a heat-seeking missile, I pick out the blonde crown of my youngest son. Even though I can only see him in profile, he is seated perfectly still, watching his wife-to-be with absolute raptured awe.

Side-eyeing each other, Danny smirks. "Yup. Someone definitely has a crush."

"Hmm," I purr. "It looks worse than that. Danny, I think our baby boy is well and truly in love." My voice catches on the last word, and my lip trembles, a single tear leaking from my eye. I feel lips butterfly kiss along my skin as Danny pecks it away, holding out his hand to me. "Come on, darling. Let's leave the little ones to their fun."

Smiling wanly, I stand and loop my arm through his, as we exit the schoolyard.

"Dannel?" I ask, smiling shyly, flirtatiously. "Did you have many crushes? When we were their age?"

Of course, I know about Belle, so his answer surprises me. Stopping fully and turning to me, my husband is radiant, his blue eyes smoldering as he rumbles, smooth as a lover on a Capitol soap opera:

"I'm still having one."

I giggle, beaming and he dips down to kiss me thoroughly.


	21. Mama Maysilee

**Chapter 21: Mama Maysilee**

All is quiet in the sterilized hallway outside of the medical wing of the Remake Center. This is the place where all new Victors are sent to recover upon extraction from the arena. I recovered here fifteen years ago, in the very hospital room now in my sights, the door currently closed. A doctor was sent in about ten minutes ago for an examination, which required him to politely kick out the successful mentor. Mags Flanagan is currently around the corner at the coffee machines, getting a cup. After a few sleepless nights, she needs it.

Not as though the outcome has ever been in doubt, at least for the past week. Maybe even before then. Young Finnick Odair has created a media bonanza unlike any Victor I have ever read about or come to personally know, either before or after my time. The camera crews had to be lightly admonished for giving him a monopoly on airtime during the parade, and that was only after several prominent escorts and Victors on the mentoring beat this year complained. Peacekeepers had to stun and taze several women attempting to bullrush the stage during his interview. And of course, when the Gamemakers gave the 14-year-old boy a rare training score of 11, well, everyone just had to meet him. They _had_ to see him live. Had he not, I think there would be riots going on in the Capitol streets far below.

Heck, Finnick Odair is safe and snug in the finest medical ward in all the Capitol, and there are _still_ riots going on down in the streets below. People desperately trying to get in and catch a glimpse of the latest Victor. Mags' first order was to have all the window curtains in the ward drawn. The Peacekeepers have taken care of the rest – no one gets in or out without the proper identification. Essentially, if you are not a licensed doctor or a Victor, you ain't getting into the Remake Center.

I am here with a small handful of my friends, waiting to spell Mags the moment she asks, if she does. She likely won't – though she's starting to get on in years (she's comfortably in her 70s), Mags is still as sharp and no nonsense as ever.

I feel a buzz in my pocket and check my mobile phone – it only has a temporary SIM card, as Victors can only have access to cell phones when they are in the Capitol and on Games business, but I make a point of relaying the number back to Merle in the Twelve Justice Building through a secure channel, who then passes it on to my husband. It is indeed a call from Danny, no doubt asking me how the new Victor is and when I'll be on the train bound for home. Not for the first time, I wish I had a cell phone year-round, that both of us did, so we could at least text. But texting capabilities are not included in Victors' phone plans anyway; I've only ever seen the elite of the elite use the function a couple of times. Besides, if we have to engage with sponsors, I think the Capitol prefers to hear our voices. It makes us easier to wiretap.

I recognize the number as the one belonging to the bakery's landline – he and the boys must be over there, working. I decide to ring it back. When the dial tone goes straight to voicemail, I leave a brief message: "Hey, baby, I'm here in the Remake Center with a couple of the fellas, ready to spell Mags. Finnick is recovering nicely; interview with Caesar may be the day after tomorrow if all goes well. Then I'll be back. Kiss the boys for me…. I love you." I hang up, noting with embarrassment how the silence allowed my voice to echo throughout the whitewashed corridors. I am grateful that no one glances up.

In the chair next to mine, Gloss Delacroix is using the magazine table to play a lazy game of chess with Chaff. Well, it might be a lazy game for just Chaff – the handsome young man from One who triumphed only two years ago has his face scrunched up in rigorous concentration. Chaff moves a pawn into enemy territory and flicks over Gloss's Queen with his finger.

"Checkmate, mofo."

Gloss lets out a frustrated growl that sounds more mutt than human. Cornered, he lashes out with his knight – a reckless move; I turned myself into a decent chess player studying at Chaff's knee. Chaff knocks over that piece, too. Gloss attempts to feint with a pawn; in three moves, using his bishop to jump over several other pieces, Chaff has him.

"I win."

Gloss upends the entire board in anger, so the queens and kings go skittering down the polished linoleum at our feet. In a chair across the hall, Beetee Latier jerks, startled, but doesn't glance up from the tome he is reading, authored by his fellow District 3 Victor, Gates Gramdan: _The Properties of ElectroMagnetic Waves – A Thesis_. I didn't know Gates had been a PhD recipient, Panem Rest His Soul. I only met him a handful of times early on in my career – he was a sweet, sweet man.

I tune back in to hear Gloss and Chaff arguing:

"You cheated!"

"I did nothing of the kind, boy – you're just a shoddy player – now pay up!" Gloss reaches for a necklace of shark teeth round his clavicle, but Chaff stops him. "Nah, nah, the earring, give me the earring…"

Gloss scowls as he removes the earing from his left lobe. "How about best out of five?"

"Let it go, Gloss," I murmur. "He'll kick your ass."

Gloss glowers at me, but it lacks any malice. I've always thought the young hothead has a bit of a crush on me, which would be flattering, if I wasn't happily married and already past 30 – which, in my view, is considered old.

The commotion settles down just in time for Mags to re-enter the corridor, carrying two mugs of coffee. She whistles sharply.

"Hey, Adonis, Maysilee's face is up here," the old lady barks, redirecting the ex-Career away from checking out my cleavage. Catching him blushing beet red, she hoots out a laugh before passing me one of the mugs of coffee. "Just sugar, right?"

I smile at her goodnaturedly. "You know me too well." I've never taken cream in my coffee – not since the day I visited Haymitch's mother after arriving home for the first time. It seems a strange thing to memorialize, but for old Rhona's sake, I do it.

All of a sudden, we hear voices raise to a shout from inside the patient's room.

"No! No, STOP! Get your hands _OFF_! _Get off me_!"

Gloss frowns. "That's new," he quips, and he, Chaff, Mags and I charge into the room before anyone can blink. A man in a white lab coat is cowering against the windows – which have somehow been conspicuously left clear of their curtains. A mere step away, Finnick Odair is actually lifting his entire IV stand high over his head, ready to bring it down on the doctor.

Chaff and Gloss size up the situation faster than I do, and ambush the doctor, driving him into a fetal position in one corner where both men proceed to pummel him. As a finishing touch, Chaff lifts the poor blighter off his feet and slams him into the panes with such force, a crack appears in the glass. For a Victor with only one good hand, it's a pretty impressive feat.

"Where are your credentials? Who authorized you to come in here? – tell me, now!" Chaff bellows in the man's face.

The doctor appears in danger of wetting himself, lip protruding out and trembling like a small child. He even sounds like one (though, I note with pride, none of my sons have ever sounded this pathetic and groveling, even in the rare instance where Dannel and I have had to discipline them), as he warbles. "I… I just wanted to look. My cousin gave me his coat and keycard pass; he's the one who works in this clinic. It's just…. " and he gazes past the burly black man at Finnick. "He's so _beautiful_ …." The man actually breaks down weeping.

Chaff sneers. "That explains it. Because you definitely aren't... Dr. Pseudolus Ram?" He checks the keycard taken off the imposter's person. "I know him personally. And he _will_ hear about this!"

"Yeah," Gloss jeers. "Cause it sounds like you were doing a lot more than just looking." Rearing back, he actually punches the imposter in the side of the head. I almost warn Gloss to be careful, but don't get the words out. "Fucking pervert! Sticky hands are for five-year-olds! Get out!"

With that, Chaff hurls the fake doctor clear across the room. The man dithers out, glancing back fearfully to find both Chaff and Gloss bearing down on him again, out the door and all the way down the ward, to make _sure_ he leaves.

It isn't until they're gone that Finnick finally lowers the IV stand – his own impressive feat of strength, as I know those devices can be heavy. He sinks down onto the bed, and for the first time since I laid eyes on him during the Reaping Recaps, the perfect façade the Capitol has dotingly cultivated cracks. The perfect Victor, as some commentators have taken to calling him, appears near tears. I drift over to his side, announcing my presence before even laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. I know from experience how skittish one can be to even innocent human touch, after such trauma. After my first…. job, it took a few nights before I allowed Danny to touch me in bed… and that was even before we were married.

"It's Maysilee Donner," I coo. "That IV stand of the mobile variety?"

A slow nod.

"You wanna go for a walk around the ward?"

Glancing to me this time, Finnick nods his head dumbly. I smile friendly-like. "OK." We begin a slow shuffle out of the hospital room, where Mags is hovering at the door, looking like she wants to intervene. Though I don't presume to usurp her role as the mentor, I nod to my friend to stand down. If this is the only opportunity I'll have to spell Mags, I will do it – the dear lady still needs the rest. It's part of the sportsmanship that Ahenobarbus, Brutus and the others take so seriously – though you might still be grieving for the tributes you lost, you do whatever you can to bring the winning tribute, the new Victor, into our family and keep him/her safe.

Emerging into the hallway, I lock eyes with a concerned Beetee, Gates' thesis text lying open in his lap. I nod to him that everything's OK, we've taken care of it. He reluctantly turns back to his reading.

The linoleum is so clean, Finnick and I can see our reflections in the floors as we patter down the hall, side by side. For a long stretch, neither of us speaks. I finally indulge a big gulp before I break the silence:

"He shouldn't have done that – absolutely unethical. I hate even more that that was the way you were informed about some of the duties…. we Victors perform here."

He takes this in with less surprise than I imagined he would. "The President telephoned me the day before last. He said there were many… clients who want to meet me." He wipes at his eyes with the back of his palm, his sea-green orbs glassy. "Is he really going to sell me?"

I want to say no, that at his age, it's sick, but I cannot bear to lie. When Jonadab was old enough and asked me why Mommy sometimes wakes up screaming at night, and why does Mommy have a large knife on the wall, I didn't lie to him then. Nor did I lie when Rye came to me with the exact same questions; Peeta is still too little, though those kinds of conversations will be soon. I won't lie to this boy before me now.

"…. Yes. As soon as he can. I was first sold when I was 17, my first year as a mentor. And it's happened off and on fairly regularly since then, except for when I was pregnant with my sons."

It is a credit to this boy's empathy that he looks even more devastated for me than I am for him. "You're married?"

"Blissfully for 13 years, as of yesterday," I smile fondly.

"Does… does your husband know? About you being…. whored out?"

An interesting question. It took many a nightmare before I was finally able to come clean to Danny. I was so ashamed over what I had done. What I am still forced to do. I have always suspected that Danny sensed some of what I was being subjected to, but had never let on. When I finally did admit everything, soon after Jonadab was born, he had kissed my hair, then my lips, and told me he still loved me anyway. I really do have the best husband in all of Panem.

I nod slowly. "He does. He holds me through everything, but he never discusses it unless I broach the topic first – something I do rarely." I shrug. "I've also told my best girlfriend. My sister." The conversation with Kaydilyn had happened once, and only once, as my twin was clearly too repulsed to hear any more. I know she has never blamed me, but I do know that Kaydie clearly has inherited the weak heart that plagued our mother. I hope for the sake of Madge, my niece, that the trait hasn't been passed down.

Finnick wipes at his eyes again. "How do you do it? Get through it?"

"I do what we're doing right now – talking about it." I squeeze his shoulder comfortingly. "Don't you feel better now that you've told someone how you really feel?"

He nods shakily. "I do. I…. I really appreciate that you would stick up for me. Even though I'm not your tribute." Finnick looks askance, and I know he is thinking about spearing my boy tribute, who just missed the Final Eight as a result. I turn his head to make him look at me, smiling easily.

"How could I do less? I have three sons – all between the ages of 11 and 7, so my oldest isn't that much younger than you are. And if _anyone_ had touched _any_ of them like that, I know I would have done what Chaff and Gloss did."

A single tears streaks down Finnick's cheek. "Thanks… Mama Maysilee."

I blink at the nickname, but shrug it off with a smile, finding that I quite like it. My boys have only ever called me Mom or Mommy, and sometimes in Peeta's case 'Mother' – my baby is a very formal little man.

A clearing of the throat makes us turn around, to find Mags watching us. She wraps Finnick in a hug. "C'mere, boy." Over his shoulder, she nods to me. "Thanks, dearie."

"I just want to help," I smile.

"Well, if you're that eager, I'll tell you another way you can help: track down Barsetti for me. He needs to settle up with me on a bet we wagered." Rubbing Finnick's back and checking that he can't hear, she hisses to me, "You might check the pleasure posters."

I nod my head in thanks and sweep out of the Remake Center, ignoring the flashing bulbs of the paparazzi, the microphones shoved in my face, asking for a statement. Hailing a cab, I take it the brief jaunt around the corner to Games Headquarters, before getting out and riding the elevator up to the floor labeled, _Victor Control Center_.

I pass through the Mentor's Bar –eerily deserted; yet a place chock-full of mentors (including me) a handful of days ago. Drained shot glasses and dark datapads still litter some of the tables. An array of phone booths is positioned on the far right wall. In the very back of the place is a door labeled REST AREA, which I enter.

"Pleasure posters" is Victor lingo for the series of four-poster beds that now line both walls, directly opposite each other, as I emerge. These beds are specially reserved for Victors to use when they need their sleep during the Games, or when they need to entertain sponsors and high-profile clients with…. other activities.

I quickly focus in on the one four-poster that still has all its curtains drawn. The light of likely a small candle bathes two undulating forms in silhouette, the svelte curves of the woman voluptuous as she sits astride the man, making love to him. I can hear groans and grunts and tiny feminine squeaks coming from inside, and fight the urge to cringe and run in the opposite direction.

"Mmmmmm…. Oh, no…"

"Hell, yes…."

"Oh, _fuck_ … Gods…. Brutus…"

"Fuck, Cece – what you do to me, woman…. That's it – bounce on me, babe! I'm gonna cum!"

I draw back the curtains with neither fanfare nor warning, just in time to see Brutus come apart from where he is impaled in Cecelia Rheys of Eight's dripping wet pussy. Cecelia has a heart-shaped face, with long strands of chestnut brown hair that drape down to kiss the perky nipples of her bare, jiggling breasts. She is smirking impishly, swiveling her hips to further bring my one-time mentor to completion. Turning her head, the viciously seductive grin only broadens; if there is any surprise in her big brown eyes, the young lady doesn't show it. Nor do I offer up any of my opinions (though I have plenty of those) on the subject of Brutus bedding a Victor a dozen years his junior.

As for Brutus, from the look on his face, he is the happiest son-of-a-bitch in the Capitol, maybe even alive. He's only been lusting after Cecelia Rheys for the past eight years, much to Cora Shutter's displeasure. Cecelia herself has been flirtatious back, coyly demurring at his advances. Even so, I never expected the pair to actually leap into bed together.

"Ah. Little darling. Fancy seeing you here…." Brutus waggles his eyebrows at me. "Wanna hop in? The water's fine!"

I cock a ruffled eyebrow at him, annoyed. "Mags told me I'd find you here." I have even less to say to Cecelia, the christened Angel of Death with ten kills to her name. Despite Cora informing me that she and Cecelia had first met when the latter started working the brothel (which Cora runs) in District 8's working class neighborhood, I still find slutty behavior distasteful. I do have the chutzpah, however, to get out to this young woman before me, her legs still spread, "If I were you, I would explore more. There are much better men, and men your age besides, than this jolly old fuck. 23-year-olds shouldn't be sleeping with dudes in their mid-thirties, unless he's a sponsor and you've got no choice!"

Cecelia shrugs, swinging her thighs off of Brutus to let him up, and they unjoin. Brutus glares at me. "You're one to talk all hoity-toity, Maysie – by the time _you_ were 23, you were married with two kids and a third on the way!"

I decide to ignore this jab. Cecelia is biting her lip.

"I didn't know you were a mom," she attempts to make conversation with me. "I have a daughter, Cardella – she's five."

"How nice," I tell her politely. Then I point at Brutus. "Mags wants to see you – something about paying up on a bet."

My old mentor scowls, snorting, his own brow disappearing into a non-existent hairline. "Bitch." (The pejorative is probably directed at Mags, though it may very well just as easily apply to me). "All right, I'm coming."

I turn my face away long enough to let him wrap a bathrobe about himself. When he is decent, he strides for the door. Pausing to give the still-naked Cecelia a little parting wave, I follow him out.


	22. Godmother

**Chapter 22: Godmother**

I feel the tremors in the earth before I hear them.

The air conditioning in the bakery is on full-blast to counteract this barnburner of a summer morning in late July. I have been home from mentoring in the Capitol for a couple of weeks already. The 69th Hunger Games moved at an unusually brisk trot; the Victor this year, District 9's Abram Mills, had the Crown in his hands within five days of the gong going off. It was quite an upset; Ben and Nolan must both be quite pleased to have another man in their Village, especially after Wheaton Vale's passing a while back, but I do feel for poor old Evelyn Morris. For her sake, I hope her district produces another female Victor at least before she dies.

At this time mid-morning, the Bakery is often at a bit of a lull between the breakfast and lunch rushes. Plus, it's a Tuesday – the steady stream of weekend shoppers has run its full course. I am perched on the front counter, washing down the fine marble countertop (it was a gift from me to Danny in celebration of our third wedding anniversary – it cost me a pretty sesterce, even with my Victor winnings, but the look on my husband's face was worth it. The thank you sex, on top of the brand-new counter to christen it, was worth it too). All of a sudden, a quaking throughout the whole building nearly bucks me off the structure. I have to grip under the countertop just to hold on. As I watch, a toaster oven across from me – which we mostly use to bake smaller breads like bagels and even some more compact baguettes – jumps out all by itself, its electrical cord straining until it tears right out of its socket and topples forward.

Over by the front windows, I watch Jonadab clutch onto a customer table for support, leaning against the mop he's been using as additional support to keep himself upright. As the earthquake subsides, my oldest boy drifts over to the front shop windows. Cupping his hands against his eyes so that they look like goggles, to shield against the glare of the sun, he peers out into the distance.

From down in the basement, I hear a shout, and then Danny and Peeta emerge upstairs. The sight of my youngest boy covered in flour – they must have been shifting sacks of it ready for kneading – would be funny if I still wasn't so shaken.

The door to the back loading dock bangs in and here's Rye, darting back in from where he has been taking out the garbage. "What happened?"

"Earthquake," Danny shrugs, holding out a hand to gentlemanly help me down from the counter. "They happen from time to time up in the mountains." We learned about the mountain range – nestled beyond the woods bordering District 12 – when we were in Upper School. It's still called by its olden name…. Appalachia. "Are you all right, darling?" Danny's thumb caresses my cheeks, and I nod.

There is a hiss, and we all glance back to Jonadab, who is wincing through his clenched underbite so hard, his teeth are grinding together. "That was no earthquake…." And my normally stoic and practical eldest son points out into the distance, where a plume of smoke is defiling the brilliant blue, cloudless sky.

My face turns as ashen as the coal dust that I now know is being shot hundreds of feet into the air. I hardly know any miners who would be working down in those dank, dangerous conditions, save for two – Clay Hawthorne, husband of our family's washerwoman and my friend, Hazelle. And Glen….

"All of you boys, stay inside," I order. "Honey, call Merle on the Justice Building landline and let him know!" My brother-in-law, the Mayor, probably already does, but it can't hurt to make sure. I kiss Danny quickly before racing out the door and pelting across Town and into the Seam.

Mining collapses in District 12 have happened before, even back when I was a little girl. But they're usually a once-in-a-blue moon event, occurring perhaps a handful of times per year. In the days of Dannel's and my grandparents, when the miners were still digging new tunnels for fresh ore, the risk was greater, the collapses more frequent. District 12 has really refined its production in the decades since. I don't know if I can necessarily say the same for the safety procedures.

I pass by the Everdeen place, and as I get closer, I can clearly see the collapse originated in District 12's largest mine. Dex Stalag, the Miner Foreman, sees me coming and pre-emptively comes to meet me, hands raised, to cut me off before I reach the main entrance.

"Miss Donner, I'm gonna have to ask you to stand back…"

"No, please, you don't understand, my best friend's husband is down there…"

"I understand, ma'am, but I'm going to need you to keep a safe distance away – please, let us do our jobs…."

The screech of metal is heavy on my ears, the mine lifts complaining and swearing loudly even as the miners here above ground can't seem to get them to rise and then plunge again, back into the depths of the earth, fast enough.

About ten minutes later, the Capitol ambulance that is stored on reserve in the Peacekeeper Barracks halfway across the district comes screaming up the gravel road. I already know that whatever meager medicine and provisions are in that truck won't be enough to cover the damage from a blast like this, and a high-speed Capitol train takes the better part of two days to reach Twelve from the city, even when going at full throttle.

I want to help, but I am in such shock that all I can do is stand there. Probably figuring that he won't be able to shoo me away, Dex finally takes pity on me and suggests, "Look, if you really want to make yourself useful, we'll need help identifying the bodies."

Although I readily profess my lack of acquaintance with most miners outside of my washerwoman's husband and my quasi-brother-in-law, I do as he asks. The sheer number of bodies... I haven't seen this many dead since I was in the arena. Corpse after corpse is brought to me; thankfully, most of the miners have ID tags on their persons for me to match with their faces, even if I don't know them by name or sight. A few, however, I can recognize without checking any badges, because they've been regular customers in the Bakery or in the sweet shop that Kaydilyn and I still help our father run. One man stands out in particular – Kristoff Callan hasn't aged at all well since the death of his adopted daughter almost two decades ago. I tearfully close his eyes. His wife, Belinda, is getting on in years; she and I have exchanged Winter Festival cards on occasion… gods, how am I going to break it to her...?

When Glen's body is brought to me, I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle something between a sob and a scream. I know it is him – instantly. The chiseled jawline. The ash-grey eyes, now open and unblinking. It is unfathomable that that beautiful singing voice will never be heard from again….

"Glen Everdeen," I report to the coroner taking copious notations.

"Next of kin?"

"Belle Everdeen, neé Foley. Katniss Everdeen. Primrose Everdeen." The coroner seems surprised that I can readily supply him with next of kin, for once, but takes down the names. As the coroner moves away, I tenderly close Glen's eyes. Kiss his forehead. I remember being so touched when he asked me and Dannel to be Katniss's godparents. Now I will have to partially fulfill the promise that I made to him.

A sharp gasp and a wrenching cry makes me snap my head up and I blanche. Belle is pelting up the path towards me, trembling like a mouse.

"Glen…..? Glenny?!..."

I try to intercept her, speak soothing words that won't come, but it does no good – with an anguished scream, Belley throws me aside and flings herself to her knees besides her deceased husband. My best friend raises such a commotion, that Dex Stalag is called away from whatever other thankless task he's been performing to see what is going on.

"M'am – Mrs. Everdeen, I'm going to need you to step back and calm down…." Dex doesn't quite know what to say, though I don't fault him. I barely know what to say myself.

"I WILL NOT CALM DOWN!" Belle screeches, in hysterics. "SAVE HIM, PLEASE! I HAVE TWO LITTLE GIRLS WAITING AT HOME! SAVE HIM!"

"Ma'am, I know this is a shock, but we tried CPR and failed to revive him. Time of death was pronounced 10:12 AM….."

Belle lets out something between a wail and a moan behind her hand, swaying dangerously on unsteady feet. I let her teeter into me, bracing her against me, and I nod over her keening head to Dex. "I'll get her out of here," I whisper. Rubbing Belle's back, I nudge her back towards her house, which is only steps away. "Come on, honey. I'll make you some tea…."

I manage to maneuver Belle past her front gate. Just as we're crossing the lawn, I hear a car backfire as a fancy Capitol sedan comes roaring up the gravel path, not even coming to a complete stop before Merle is leaping out, sprinting for the scene of destruction. My brother-in-law and I lock eyes momentarily, and taking in Belle's state, he nods in sympathy to me, his own face contorting with pain.

Belle and I half-fall across the threshold, and I just manage to manipulate her into a chair before her knees completely give out. She is staring at the far wall, at embers in the fireplace still dying from last night, appearing to be in a catatonic state. When I try to entice her with tea, she doesn't even turn her head. I finally have to circle the entire chair with cup and saucer just to get her to look at me.

"Belley…." I croon. "You're going to have to drink, eat something. Glen… Glen would want you to go on living." Like a lightning bolt, I hear the echo of my own words, in Brutus's voice, about someone I lost oh so long ago: _Haymitch would want you to go on living_ ….

Belle shakes her head meekly. "I can't…. Every morning, I would pack his lunch. Waiting on supper when he got home in the evening. He's supposed to be home this evening…." Burying her face in her skirts, she breaks down in sobs, and I draw her to me. Lifting her eyes from the folds of her dress, she wails, "GLEN! I WANT GLEN!"

The cries of their mother summon the two little girls from upstairs; I hear the pitter-patter of their little feet on the landing. Katniss is in a simple blue sundress, her chestnut hair in a single braid running down her back. Her eyes – Glen's eyes – blink owlishly in concern and maybe a little fear. Primrose, her golden pigtails framing her like an angel's halo, whimpers in terror.

"Auntie…. where's Daddy?"

I beckon Prim to me and draw her into my side, rubbing her arm. "Daddy…. Daddy won't be home tonight sweetheart. He… he had to go out to the meadow." At only 7, Prim won't get the euphemism. At just over 11, Katniss does, and her grey eyes bulge huge as she staggers back a step. Religion is expressly forbidden in Panem, but I've known many Seam and even a few Merchant families speak of a place beyond this wasteland, where there isn't any more pain or Hunger Games. Ironically, I have found myself flashing back to images of the meadow in my arena whenever I've tried to picture such a place.

I whisper low in Primrose's ear: "Why don't you go play dolls with your sissy while I help Mummy in here, OK?" Bottom lip trembling, Prim nods before racing back for the stairs and grasping Katniss's hand. My goddaughter studies me intensely while she is dragged all the way up the stairs.

Left alone again, I sit with Belle and hold her, while the day's shadows grow steadily longer along the walls. At what I judge to be evening, I nudge my best friend awake, and whisper to her that I'm going to start cooking dinner. She continues to stare at that spot on the far wall as I work making up a pot of soup and set it to boil. Ladling some broth into a bowl, I bring it to her. It quickly becomes apparent that I have to spoon-feed my best friend like she's an infant, but I do so gamely.

"There are going to be injured miners, you know." The comment causes her to focus in on me for the first time nearly all day. "Even if…. you couldn't save Glen, you can still save others. You're a Healer; it's what you do and you're good at it. It's a honorable way to help provide for your little ones." I know I might be broaching the topic of finding a line of work too soon, but encouragingly, Belle seems to digest my words, nodding heavily.

I cross back to check on the soup, turning to call up the stairs: "Katniss! Primrose! Dinner!"

The girls traipse down the stairs morosely – Katniss's eyes are red and puffy, like she's been crying. I serve up their supper wordlessly. I try to engage them in conversation, but I can't think of any talk – however small – that doesn't sound ludicrous in this morbid context. I am saved by a knock at the door.

Dex Stalag and Merle are on the doorstep, hats in their hands. I manage to coax Belle to the threshold long enough for the Miner Foreman and the Mayor to both offer their condolences. All told, they report that over 30 miners – including both Glen and Hazelle's husband, Clay Hawthorne – perished in the collapse, one of the worst District 12 has seen in living memory. Close to 20 more miners are injured, a few grievously. I am thrilled that Belle seems to rouse at this, and she promises to gather her Healing supplies and set out to the site immediately – it is, after all, but a stone's throw away. She and Dex manage to compromise that she'll come by in the morning, as she is exhausted and grieving and needs at least a good night's sleep first. I doubt she'll get it.

When Dex leaves, Merle offers to stay and sit up with Belle; he apparently has his cracker-jack team combing over the mining site. I volunteer to put the girls to bed, carrying a sleepy Primrose up to the mattress she shares with her older sister. Kissing them both, I am moving to turn off the light when Katniss grips my arm:

"You won't leave us, will you, Auntie? You'll stay?" and I know she means well past just this night.

"Of course, precious…. Always." I blow out the gas lamp by their bedside and finally drag myself off the property and towards home.

I arrive home at the bakery to find it locked up for the night. Using my key, I slip inside just long enough to call our mansion with the landline and tell Danny I am on my way home.

When I drag myself into Victor's Village, Danny is right there to take me in his arms.

"Belle – is she….?"

I don't, can't answer beyond bursting into tears. Through hiccups, my husband is eventually able to get me to tell him the whole sorry tale. He appears genuinely pained and regretful over the death of Glen, his one-time rival.

Once I am seated in the living room couch without even fully realizing how I got there, Peeta nearly attacks me.

"Where's Katniss?" he peppers me with the steady barrage normally attributed to a Capitol submachine gun. "Is she all right? Is she hurt?" Peeta knows better than any of us how close the Everdeen place is to the blast site. It's a miracle the depths of the earth took the brunt of the explosion. Outside of a coating of coal dust, no other buildings or structures seem to have been harmed or otherwise compromised.

"Can it, Peet, our little cousin is fine," Rye teases. As I almost consider Katniss and Primrose second and third nieces after my actual niece, Madge, my middle child has often joked how we are practically related to the Everdeens, much to his little brother's consternation.

"She's not my cousin!" he blasts out angrily, lunging at Rye. As the initial shouts of an argument go up, I bellow over the threatening din:

"GOD, WILL YOU ALL JUST BE QUIET?!"

The four men in my life all freeze, Rye the most stunned out of all of them. I don't think any of my children can ever recall me raising my voice at them, or their father, for any reason. Sure, Dannel and I have had lover's tiffs every now and again, but the exchanged words are usually terse, not loud.

Realizing what I have done, my eyes swim with tears and I sink into the couch cushions, hand to my temple where I feel a horrible migraine coming on. "I'm…. I'm sorry. It's just that…."

"Well, sure, it's OK, Mom. Mrs. Everdeen's your best friend…" Jonadab comforts me, sending Rye a withering glare. Peeta is still adorably stricken over Katniss, prompting Rye to tease, though less cruelly, "Yeah. And Peet, I'm sure your future wife is just peachy."

She really isn't – what girl would be peachy after losing her father? – yet Peeta blushes all the same. Danny kneels before me, rubbing his calloused thumbs over my knuckles.

"Poor Belley…. Is there anything we can do to help?"

I wince at him, worrying my bottom lip. "I… I don't know." Legally, a Victor can spend his/her pension however he or she sees fit. I know; I had Beetee check the laws on such matters. Danny and I have never had any qualms about donating some of our wealth to the Community Home (more often than not in the memory of Gilla Callan's name), which we've done for years. What concerns me more is the optics – some would view a Victor favoring the family of a dead Seam miner as very, _very_ suspicious. I could easily see someone running away with the conspiracy theory (however outlandish) that Prim is secretly mine, sired by Glen, and that I am now funneling wads of sesterces – hard, Capitol money – to his widow and children out of guilt. Or…. something. And if either Haymitch Abernathy or even Beech Berryhill was here, and the Victor in place of me, people would be whispering the same thing if either of them displayed such charity.

No, I might not be able to help Belle through monetary channels, however much I could and might want to. But I can think of a few ways that we could help. Danny and the boys could supply the Everdeens with fresh bread, at no charge. I will visit as often as I can to mind the girls and help Belle get back on her feet.

And there are other ways as well...

* * *

Several weeks later, Merle organizes a small funeral ceremony for the families of the thirty dead miners. Each widowed spouse is presented with a medal – it's not real gold, like my medal from the Hunger Games, but the sentiment is quite thoughtful. Belle is too inconsolable to accept the honor on her husband's behalf, so Katniss is the one to take the token and shake the Mayor's hand. Clay Hawthorne's oldest boy – the eldest of three and soon to be four – accepts the medal for his father. It was enough of an effort to get Hazelle to waddle up onstage, as she has a stomach out to her feet and is expected to give birth any day.

After the gathering, I take my brother-in-law aside, wanting to get his thoughts and hopefully permission on my plans. Madge, Katniss and Peeta will all be eligible for the Reaping for the first time next year; this year, I had to know Rye's name was in the bowl for the first time, and I was a nervous wreck. In talking with my few Victor colleagues who have gone on to have families of their own, I understand that children and even grandchildren of Victors are very popular choices to get Reaped. But no direct descendant of a Victor has ever gone on to become Victor in his or her own right.

In one of the first conversations I had with Glen, I also recall him mentioning how his father owned a hunting cabin, out in the woods beyond the district fence. Taking all this information together, and I know I can prepare the children for what might very well come their way, and do so safely. Plus, in the case of Katniss, the skills could prove useful, as she likely will have to supplement her mother's meager Healing wages. When I had first floated the idea to my goddaughter, she had agreed readily.

"I'd love to hunt with you, Auntie – Papa taught me how, a little…." and she had told me about bows and arrows hidden in secret places that she knew how to find.

Merle is not nearly so enthused when I tell him my intentions.

"The woods are dangerous, Maysie! And Madge is too little…"

I raise an eyebrow at him, cutting him off. "She's going to be 12 next year, Merle. And you might think that as the Mayor's daughter, she is protected from all that, but let me tell you, she's not! Snow wouldn't care about betraying a loyal Mayor by seeing his kid go in… and the districts would love it!"

Merle goes white at this, and finally, reluctantly, gives a nod of his head.

I smile. "Excellent. Drop Madge off by the Village tomorrow, just after dawn."

* * *

The lush greenery is still as I crouch with three preteens behind a fallen log. Peeking over the rim, we have a good view of the doe grazing by the small, still pond barely a hundred paces beyond Glen Everdeen's hunting cabin.

It's been years since I was in Training as a tribute, but I still have retained some of the rudimentary basics surrounding archery, even all these years later. Tilting my head, I whisper along my goddaughter's earlobe:

"Line up your shot." She strings the bow like someone several years her senior and experience and notches the arrow in the groove. I don't know exactly what Glen has taught her, but it must have been a whole hell of a lot. "Aim low, for critical organs. The heart and liver of a deer are usually the best places to pierce for a quick kill." _They're also the best places to pierce for killing a human tribute_ , I think, though I don't voice this aloud.

Katniss breathes deeply. "Exhale…." I prompt. "And…. release."

She lets the arrow fly. The doe glances up, but not quickly enough before the arrow skewers its liver and she keels over, dead.

I grin broadly. "Perfect."

The collapsing of the doe startles some quail in a nearby thrush, and the birds take to the skies, squawking indignantly.

"I got them!" My youngest son lines up his shot far too quickly, and the arrow goes hopelessly wide. Madge lets out a cry of fear and also misses by quite a bit.

Growling in frustration, Peeta throws down the extra bow Katniss lent him into the dirt.

"Fu…."

"Peeta Haymitch Mellark," I admonish preemptively. "Language." Darting a fearful glance over at Katniss, Peeta clamps his jaws shut, and I have to suppress a smirk. The last thing my baby boy wants is for his chosen bride to think he has a foul mouth.

Katniss seems not to have noticed the almost-swearing…. but she _did_ notice how off Peeta was on his aim. She shakes her head, sighing loudly at my boy's incompetence. "No, no, Peeta – you want to hold the bow like this…." She steals her arms around him, guiding his fingers on how to properly string the bow and notch the arrow. Peeta doesn't seem to be paying the least bit of attention to anything outside of where she is placing her hands. From the ecstasy on his face, I fear he is in danger of having a heart attack on the spot.

Spying a squirrel, Katniss partially manhandles my son to swing him round and take aim at the little beast, gnawing on a nut at the base of a tree. Her face is parallel to his – if either one of them turned their heads even the slightest degree, their lips would touch. Peeta seems acutely aware of this; Katniss is oblivious.

"Aim for the eye…." she murmurs, her voice sounding like sweet music. Peeta nods dumbly, like a marionette on strings. Katniss is his puppeteer; she has him completely under her spell. "Exhale..."

Peeta lets out a shaky breath.

"And…. release."

Peeta lets the arrow fly, and the tip of it impales itself into the squirrel's skull before it has the chance to even turn and run. A memory surfaces of that golden, carnivorous squirrel taking a few inches of my flesh, and I fight to tamp it down.

Katniss smiles in approval – a rare sight from her these days, at least since the death of her father. "Perfect."

Peeta beams at the praise, turning to look at her and realizing how close she truly is. Before he can gather his courage and do anything – like kiss her – Katniss moves away.


	23. Reaping Kisses Through the Years

**Chapter 23: Reaping Kisses Through the Years**

_When Katniss and Peeta are twelve, my son plucks up the courage to give his crush her first Reaping Kiss._

It is actually Katniss's first kiss, period, I come to find out later, and I get a front-row seat for it.

We are down in the front garden of the Everdeen place, waiting for Prim to come out so Peeta can escort the Everdeen girls down to the Square. About a week ago, Belle took ill with a high fever, and had managed to get a medical waiver from attendance at the Reaping. Except in a special case like this one, Reapings are compulsory attendance for everyone throughout Panem – no exceptions. I had assured my best friend that we would take care of the girls for the day; I have a feeling this illness was brought on in anticipation of the anniversary of Glen's death in a few weeks. When Peeta got wind of our substitution, he jumped at the chance to walk Katniss and Prim to the Reaping.

My goddaughter is now pacing frenetically throughout the weedy garden, the hem of her blue Reaping dress swishing at her ankles. She is tugging at the single braid running down her back, and appears to be one tick away from hyperventilating.

"They pick twelve-year-olds all the time," she is muttering to herself. "Why shouldn't they pick me?"

"Just be confident, dear!" I call from where I am perched on the front porch.

"If they take me, who's going to look after Prim….?"

Next to me, Peeta is watching his secret love work herself into a tizzy with barely concealed agony. At last, he stands up and marches over to her, getting directly in her path so he can grab her by the shoulders.

"Stop," he admonishes. "I hate to see you like this. When you worry."

"And why shouldn't I?" Katniss snaps fiercely, finally starting to come truly unglued. "You could be picked just as likely as I could!" _Probably more than likely_ , I think to myself, but I feel my heart tremble at the thought and quickly banish it.

"You're not going to get picked," Peeta states firmly, as if just saying it will make it so.

"How do you know?" Katniss screeches, getting right in his face. "Tell me, Mr. I'm-the-Son-of-a-Victor, how do you know?!"

At that moment, hands still bracing her shoulders, Peeta yanks Katniss forward and crushes his lips to hers in a passionate kiss.

I sit up a little straighter, eyes wide, though I make no moves to stop the hurried embrace. Oh, my Panem… he actually did it. I didn't think he would ever have the nerve, and certainly not at the ripe old age of 12.

Katniss has gone completely rigid against Peeta's strong body, her grey eyes bulging and I think I hear her let out something between a startled whimper and a squeak. Her dainty hands come up to rest against Peeta's developing chest…

… and she shoves him back hard, so that my son nearly stumbles over the Everdeens' collapsing gate and lands in the dirt.

Wiping at her mouth, Katniss appears furious, but seems also in full knowledge of exactly what Peeta has done and what it means.

"A Reaping Kiss? I don't believe in that superstitious crap! And even if I did, a real man would ask a girl before kissing her!" And she throws open the gate and starts stomping up the path, her nose prissily in the air. Prim comes out too late to see her sister apparently leaving without her, and a dazed Peeta has to take her hand and run to catch up. Watching them go, I break off, back for the Village – I need to be up at my mansion to meet the Peacekeepers who always escort me to the Justice Building under military guard.

On the issue of consent, yes, Peeta was clearly in the wrong. I had instilled in him and his brothers the importance of it, just as Mama instilled the lesson in both Kaydilyn and me. It goes both directions.

Still, I can't help but feel crushed for my son, to be so openly rejected…. even if, like his father before him, he was trying to protect someone he loves…

Afterwards, Prim informs me that Katniss spent the rest of that day and a couple days after touching her lips in wonder and murmuring to herself, "He kissed me…. why would he kiss me?" When Prim asks who 'he' is (though I have a feeling she's already figured it out), I have to come clean.

* * *

_When Katniss and Peeta are thirteen, my son kisses her on Reaping Morning again. She slaps him._

Belle is present for the whole display this time, Katniss barking at her to hurry up and pausing to straighten Primrose's dress.

Speaking of Primrose, it really is her fault that this second kiss happens at all.

"Now, remember: if I don't get picked…."

"…. _When_ you don't get picked…." Peeta corrects his crush.

Katniss pointedly ignores him, tucking in Prim's blouse. "You come and find me with Mother." My goddaughter's hands are shaking and Prim notices.

"Katty?"

"What is it, Prim?"

"Is Peeta going to Reaping Kiss you again?"

Dead silence in the garden. Katniss is gawping at her little sister, open-mouthed. Leaning against the garden gate, Rye is smirking in deep amusement, obviously grateful he decided to tag along this year.

In the interim, Katniss has slowly stood up, still staring at Prim. "How do you know..?"

She is so focused on her sister, she never sees him coming.

Spinning her around, Peeta dips her back a little bit and kisses her right on the mouth. Katniss's eyes pop again and she squirms a little until Peeta lets her go after a moment. She stumbles back, spluttering, stunned.

Peeta presents her with his most winning smile. "Primrose asked. I felt I had to oblige."

Another beat, and then –

SMACK.

Katniss's hand flies out as she slaps Peeta hard across the face, her coal-grey eyes burning. Snatching Prim's hand, the two girls flounce out of the garden, Prim looking immensely confused. "Was it something I said…?"

Belle, meanwhile, is narrowing her eyes protectively at my youngest son. There is nothing I can do or say but wince at my best friend apologetically, as Peeta draws to my side, sheepish and embarrassed. As we exit the garden, Rye is doing his level best not to laugh and failing horribly. I wag a finger in his face.

"Stop it."

* * *

_When Katniss and Peeta are fourteen, he asks to kiss her this time. She says Yes._

The pair of them are seated on the Everdeen front porch in what I think is already going to be an annual tradition, of us meeting our friends to pick them up and take them to the Square. Katniss is as on edge as she has ever been, and she has more reason to be this year than most – the youngest person to ever win the Hunger Games was Reaped at her age. The fact that Finnick Odair still won, and therefore got to live, despite these horrible odds doesn't seem to dawn on her.

"Three slips…." she whimpers. "Three slips in the bowl…. It's an omen…"

Peeta chuckles as he rubs her shoulder, which he's slung his arm across. Surprisingly, Katniss has made no moves to shrug him off. "I'm pretty sure three is a good lucky number, not bad…"

Through her tears, Katniss smirks at him dryly. "Now you're starting to sound like Primrose."

"Hey, she's only ten, cut her a break. And anyway, I thought you didn't believe in all that 'superstitious crap' – your words."

His quoting of her takes them both back to this time two years ago, right after Peeta first kissed her. Drawing away a little bit, like she's afraid he's going to attack her mouth again, Katniss tugs at her braid nervously. "I don't," she sniffs. Glancing down into her lap, she murmurs, "I still don't know why you did it. Threw away a Reaping Kiss on me."

Peeta appears taken aback by this, and for a second I think he is going to profess his love for her, if for no other reason than to make it clear why he did what he did. But he doesn't. Instead, he tells her, "I've always believed that a Reaping Kiss guarantees neither you nor your partner will be picked. Thanks to you, for the past two years, I've been proven right."

I don't voice Merle's ancient revision of the theory, instead merely content in watching them.

Katniss is blinking owlishly at him, seeming to hang on his every word, despite her disbelief in the tradition. Peeta is staring at her just as intensely, and he takes her hand in his.

"Katniss?"

She shivers, startled by his touch, as though she has come in contact with a live wire. When she replies, her voice actually trembles. "Y-Yes?"

"Can I please give you a Reaping Kiss?"

She leans back, beautiful grey eyes wide, before cocking an eyebrow nearly into her hairline. " _May_ I please give you a Reaping Kiss?" she corrects his grammar, her tone schoolmarmish. After a prolonged silence, she finally, actually whispers:

"Yes, you may."

Peeta looks just as shocked as I am that she actually agrees to it, but then he takes her face in his hands, tilting her head back and up. Katniss eyes him in slightly concealed amusement, her eyes fiercely challenging. _Well? Are you going to kiss me or not?,_ she seems to be silently asking him, as she allows Peeta to bring her face closer. Their lips meet.

To my amazement and encouragement, Katniss actually takes less than a moment to relax into the kiss, reaching up to loop her arms about my son's neck. Her fingers hesitantly sink themselves into Peeta's blond curls and… is it just my imagination, or is she using this grip to pull him closer and deepen the kiss?

After a few moments, my son and goddaughter noisily break apart. Katniss doesn't move out of the embrace right away, letting her fingers twirl themselves through Peeta's blonde strands, her expression one of bemusement, like she's sizing him up. Like she's trying to figure out how she feels about the kiss, whether she liked it or resented it. Finally, she slips out of Peeta's arms and stands up.

"I'd better go find my sister…" And she turns back to the house, calling a little too loudly, "Primrose! We're leaving!"

* * *

_When Katniss and Peeta are fifteen, they both nearly forget about the Reaping Kiss entirely._

It is actually Katniss who remembers, and it is Katniss who shockingly takes the initiative. We are nearly at the Square before it dawns on my goddaughter. She's been racking her brain all morning, muttering to herself, "I know I'm forgetting something…. What am I forgetting?" She checked and re-checked that she and Prim both have their identification cards, which are critical in helping the Peacekeepers sign each eligible child in. She straightens Prim's blouse, and makes sure her mother is present and accounted for.

To his credit, Peeta doesn't float out a reminder of what still needs to be done. He doesn't ask for a kiss the way he did last year, lest it seem like he is expecting one or is entitled to one. (It isn't until later that he will tell me he had forgotten about the Reaping Kiss too). If Primrose knows something is missing, she doesn't let on, as she did two years ago and made things so awkward.

We are literally in line, about ten people back from the front. I had requested the Peacekeepers to meet me at the Everdeen place and escort me from there, so I could remain with the kids, ignoring how Cray didn't seem happy about it. I am just about to break off and head for the stage in front of the Justice Building when Katniss remembers.

Right before Peeta steps forward to let the Peacekeeper take his pinprick of blood.

"Wait! I almost forgot!" she cries. Turning Peeta around and pulling him close, she kisses him thoroughly, passionately on the lips. Her eyes even flutter closed, a little. In absolute shock, it takes a healthy second or two before Peeta recovers, his hands gliding about Katniss's slim waist as he kisses her back.

"Ahem." The Peacekeeper officer has to clear her throat to get both of the kids' attention, and Katniss and Peeta snap apart, their arms still around each other. Katniss is panting, red-faced and flushing, her breasts heaving under the bodice of her blue dress.

"For luck," she breathes to Peeta, and then releases him so he can have his blood drawn. At her side, Primrose is practically dancing with matchmaking glee. I myself am smirking proudly and sentimentally as the Peacekeepers lead me away to the stage….

* * *

_When Katniss and Peeta are sixteen, Katniss tells Peeta to kiss her._

I have the girls meet us up in the Victors' Village this time, for a change of pace. Katniss may claim she is not superstitious (this, despite the fact that she has engaged in a superstition with my youngest son for the past four years) but I am.

But if I am deeply worried for little Primrose, in her first year of eligibility, Katniss is downright terrified.

She is white as a ghost upon coming up over the crest of the hill, making right for Peeta and lacing her trembling hands through his. "Please tell me she's going to be all right."

Peeta smiles at her easy. "She's going to be all right," his voice is crooning and smooth as velvet, sounding every bit like a lover.

Even as she rolls her eyes prissily at him, my goddaughter has to tamp down a sob. "How do you _know_?" she demands.

Peeta shrugs, unfazed. "It's called math. Look, Prim has only one slip in the bowl, right? She's never had to take out tesserae. That one little slip is in amidst thousands of others. The chances of Trinket pulling her are infinitesimal. It's highly unlikely she'd even pick either you or me – we each only have our names in the bowl five times."

Actually, I have the most foreboding suspicion that Peeta's name is in there even more times than he might ever imagine, but I don't voice this paranoia aloud. Still, I have to be proud of him for reassuring her – I knew there was a reason Danny and I placed him in charge of the account books.

"Also," Peeta is comforting Katniss, "Think of it this way: when was the last time District 12 picked a twelve-year-old from either gender at the Reaping?"

I know all too well exactly when it was – Woody Hanks, seventeen years ago, just before either of these two young people standing before me were even conceived.

"And Prim could pass easily for a Merchant, and Merchant kids getting picked is even rarer!" Peeta is excitedly telling Katniss. "Mother is one of the few Merchant kids ever Reaped for the Games, and I could count how many of those there has been total on both hands!"

Katniss smiles weakly. "You really think she won't be picked?"

"I really don't," Peeta smiles confidently. "Why, if she is, I'll eat my dad's hat!"

Katniss draws a hand to her lips to stifle a giggle. "I don't think Capitol leather is as edible as bread…."

"No, indeed," Peeta grins. His eyes find Primrose, who is clasping her big sister's hand and looking thoroughly terrified. All the color has drained from her face. My son grins at her easily.

"Gotten yourself a Reaping Kiss yet, Prim?"

My littlest surrogate niece sniffles. "No. I asked Rory Hawthorne for one yesterday, but he says it's too icky!"

Peeta chuckles, squatting down to her level. Before the little girl can blink, he leans in and ghosts his lips chastely across hers. Prim reels back, blinking, her eyes shining.

"There." Peeta murmurs. "You're safe, Prim – I'm sure of it."

Katniss's own eyes are shining as Peeta rises back to his feet. Her grey eyes are translucent with tears, as she stares at my son in debilitating gratitude.

"Kiss me," she breathes out quite suddenly.

Turning to her, it is now Peeta's turn to blink, before he laughs. "Jealous Prim will steal me away, are you?"

Katniss scowls. "Just shut up and kiss me, damnit." And crossing to him in one stride, she slings a hand behind his neck and yanks his lips down onto hers in a passionate Reaping Kiss.

Peeta _groans_ immediately and his hands float down to her hips as he kisses her back. The passion with which he returns my goddaughter's affection makes the beautiful young woman gasp, her lips parting with the sound so that I can just detect Peeta's tongue slipping in between the split to greet hers.

As the not-quite-a-couple (frankly, I don't know what they are, and I doubt they do, either) gets lost in the kiss, Peeta rather boldly steals his arms about Katniss's waist and then dips audaciously lower, his palm tentatively caressing the curved flesh of her rear through her dress.

Katniss gasps sharply again, and then astonishingly hitches her leg around Peeta's waist, the hem of her blue dress riding up her creamy thigh. Letting out twin groans, my son and goddaughter stagger back into a small sapling by the Village fountain, Katniss's back pressed against the bark. Peeta is actually rutting himself against his love. Growling, taking his bottom lip between her teeth, Katniss actually grips Peeta's buttocks in her fists and furiously jerks her hips back.

Primrose and I look at each other, the little girl at a loss for what she is witnessing. "Auntie? What are Katniss and Peeta doing?"

I don't answer her, as that could get us lost in the weeds of a conversation she is absolutely _not_ old enough to have. I clear my throat. Nothing happens. I clear it again, louder this time.

Katniss and Peeta violently break apart, their arms still strewn about each other and holding each other everywhere. Katniss blushes beet-red at the very compromising position she now finds herself in and disentangles herself from Peeta's embrace. Stepping away from him, she appears stunned by how carried away they both got. No, more than that – she appears _frightened_.

I laugh tightly. "All right, you two. That's enough luck to feed the whole district! Now, come on, let's go – we're going to be late!"

Primrose seizes Katniss's hand and drags her out of the Village, Peeta lightly jogging behind. "I'll catch up with you!" I call to their retreating backs. I can still see the children in the distance when Cray and his men arrive to escort me under heavy guard to the Justice Building. When we arrive, they let me in through a side door and I meet with my brother-in-law, the Mayor, quietly.

When the clock strikes two, I am ushered out onto the stage and take my usual seat. Merle, tragically balding too early, reads off the Treaty of Treason. Then he reads the names of past District 12 Victors.

"The Victor of the 10th Hunger Games – Lucy Gray Baird!" Everyone bows their heads in respect for our mysterious first Victor, long since vanished.

"The Victor of the 50th Hunger Games, or Second Quarter Quell – Maysilee Donner!" I had worked out an agreement with my brother-in-law a long time ago to continue using my maiden name when announcing me. I do business under my maiden name in the Capitol. Danny at least has never seemed to mind.

A brief, traditional video is played, extolling the glory of the Games, and then our escort, Effie Trinket – clad in a purple and pink wig – takes the microphone. "I just love that!" she manages, breathless.

She wastes no time. "Ladies first!" Dipping her forearm into the bowl and sifting through the slips, the way that her predecessor, Dolly Evana, once did before selecting Haymitch and changing my life forever, she selects one wisp of paper with a flourish.

I barely have time to steel myself before Effie is announcing in a clear, crystalline voice:

"Primrose Everdeen!"

All I can think of as the world stops turning is, _Well, I hope poor Peeta has an appetite for Capitol leather – he's going to have to eat his dad's hat._


	24. Worst Nightmare

**Chapter 24: Worst Nightmare**

I can't believe it. My second-worst nightmare (the worst being if I have to watch either of my two youngest sons or my niece, Madge, get Reaped) has come to life right before my eyes. Primrose was one slip of paper in _thousands_! I can't help but think of my own Reaping 24 years ago, though at that time, I had five slips in the bowl. Still, out of all the thousands of slips Dolly Evana could have picked that day, she happened to select one of the five with my name on it.

And today, out of all the thousands of slips Effie Trinket could have picked, she just had to choose the single, solitary one bearing the name of my best friend's youngest child.

Out of my peripheral vision, I see a floating, high-tech Capitol camera hovering closer to me, zooming in for a better shot. I don't know what kind of expression is on my face, but it must be something juicy, if the Capitol is zooming in on it so viewers at home don't miss one, wretched second of the drama. Out in the Square, many folks are shuffling about, whispering to each other, exchanging glances, confused. We haven't Reaped a twelve-year-old in over a decade and a half. And for us to have Reaped a 12-year-old who could pass for a Merchant child now that her father is gone…. well, it has simply never been done.

No matter whether you are Seam or Merchant, just about every person in Twelve knows and adores Primrose Everdeen. She's an angelic, perfect child, I've heard some people say… even if, in the very next breath, they'll murmur how she is easier to appreciate than her standoffish, shrewish sister – though, you have to admit, that Katniss really is a beauty, isn't she? I have always wanted to come to the defense of my goddaughter when I have overheard such comparisons being raised, even if there is a grain of truth to it.

I try to scan the shuffling crowd for any sign of Belle, suddenly wanting to silently communicate something, anything to my best friend – an apology I don't know how to put into words. In the sea of faces, I cannot pick out my old Maid of Honor, but my eyes do focus, like a heat-seeking missile, onto a simpering Prim just stepping out of the 12-year-olds' pen. Here on the stage, Effie clamps her jaw shut, from where she must have just been preparing to call the chosen tribute's name again. This little girl who has been selected for death.

"That's it, come on up, my dear!"

Primrose begins her death march down the center aisle, all the eyes of the district upon her. It is so quiet in the Square, you could hear a pin drop.

Then, something primal and anguished pierces the stillness, and my eyes and ears follow the sound to land on a striking young woman in a blue dress stepping out of line and stumbling towards the smaller girl in a daze, trying to chase her back down before she reaches the stage. Katniss….

"Prim!" Her breath sounds almost choked off, she is so paralyzed with fear. "Prim!"

Two white-plated Peacekeeper officers move out of position, with the intent to cut the eldest Everdeen girl off and block her path. In sheer panic, Katniss wails out, "I volunteer! I VOLUNTEER! I volunteer as tribute!"

The officers freeze, standing down and aside to let her pass, though beyond this, they seem at a loss for what to do next. I barely know myself, and I can feel the damn hovercamera nearly in my face again, capturing my expression that must now be positively shattered, for that is how I feel inside. My soul and heart are howling, even if my slightly more rational brain has to praise my goddaughter's chutzpah. The smashing of precedent. District 12 has never had a volunteer – ever. In 74 years. With that handful of words, Katniss has already guaranteed that sponsors in the Capitol will sit up and take notice – and as her mentor, I too can only stand to benefit from them.

Even if, at the likely price of her life, I don't want to.

"Wonderful!" Effie trills, beckoning her taloned nails to Katniss now instead. A tall, stocky boy emerges from the 18-year-olds' section and moves fast to pick up a wailing Primrose and carry her off to safety. No Peacekeeper moves to stop the lad, and perhaps they appreciate the young man doing their job for them. As the young man and my littlest surrogate niece melt back into the crowd, I recognize him: it is Clay and Hazelle's oldest boy, all grown up. This would be his last Reaping… and Effie might well pick him within the next few moments. We will just have to wait and see.

Katniss is mounting the stage, sending a crestfallen stare in my direction. I nod to her, trying to appear as encouraging and hopeful as I can, despite already knowing that my goddaughter won't want me to lie to her about the odds, such as they stand. Effie drifts to Katniss's side with the microphone, quite enraptured with this spirited young lady who has managed to bring District 12 the most self-respect it has displayed in years.

"And what's your name, honey?"

"Katniss Everdeen." Her voice is now wooden, in a fog, the dullness of it quickly followed by a screech of static feedback from the microphone. She must be in a state of shock.

"Well, I bet my hat that was your sister!" In the 16 years I've worked with her, I have never wanted to strangle Effie Trinket more than in this moment. Don't get me wrong, we get along decently, and although Effie's….. intellectual density and lack of self-awareness is ordinarily harmless, it could now very well get someone killed. Effie is twisting the emotional knife into my best friend's daughter – and worse still, the Capitol liaison likely doesn't even realize that's what she's doing.

"Yes….. it was." Katniss's voice is still flat, monotone, like she still doesn't fully comprehend where she is or how she got there.

Effie finally has to move on, reaching for the boys' Reaping bowl. My emotions are already shot, and I squeeze my eyes tight, perversely hoping that Effie draws a twelve-year-old, scrawny Seam boy this time, so I may be allowed to solely focus on my goddaughter's chances.

Effie doesn't draw a twelve-year-old, scrawny Seam boy. She draws someone far worse. "Peeta Mellark!"

Gray spots are dotting my vision. I can feel my nails digging into the armrests of my chair, but I can see or hear nothing. A sharp voice blasts across the deadening stillness ("She's going! She's going!") and I feel hands – perhaps Merle's – prop me up just enough so that I don't go toppling out of my seat. When my vision finally clears to a reasonable degree, I am staring into my son's blue, petrified eyes – my eyes – as he mounts the stage. Effie prompts the two tributes to shake hands, and in both their faces, I can clearly see the agony of young heartbreak.

That is when it fully hits me: my son and my goddaughter – one child by blood, the other by choice and responsibility…. Two young people who may or may not be in love with each other, judging by how passionately they were kissing just this morning – are going together into the Hunger Games.

And I can only bring one of them home alive. Which means I have to lose one of them, if I don't lose them both.

Yup. This is officially my worst nightmare.

* * *

It would appear that Katniss has passed her stupefied condition over to me, for I soon find myself in the lobby of the Justice Building, except I cannot fully recall how exactly I got from Point A to Point B. I think I was trying to run after Peeta, but the crunch of bodies rushing for the oaken, double doors impeded my pursuit.

The Peacekeepers on post are giving me an unusually wide berth, and acting skittish. It's as if they fear I will try something drastic. Like throw myself at the door to the holding room currently imprisoning my son. Bang on it and scream until they release him back into my arms.

I don't do this, of course, though I am sorely tempted. I won't give any of the officers the satisfaction. I am, however, consumed within a private and tempestuous sea of emotion, as I try to process what the hell just happened.

This has Snow written all over it. He's found me out. He somehow knows that I am involved – however tepidly – with Chaff and the rebels' efforts to eventually overthrow him. All these years, he's lulled me into a false sense of complacency, until I came to almost forget that anyone associated with me will always remain in grave danger. With this Reaping, he has let me know that I still belong to him…. and simultaneously, spiced up these Games by drawing in two direct descendants of District 12 Victors into battle.

Not that he knows there _are_ two. But in thinking back to one of the first conversations I ever had with Glen – the first day we met, in fact – I remember him telling me how his grandmother (that would be Katniss's great-grandmother) was a cousin of Lucy Gray Baird. That means that our district's first Victor is a direct ancestor of my girl tribute. Even if Lucy Gray is a relatively forgotten Victor, it is possible that the Capitol will make this connection by the time Katniss gets into the arena. Everyone knows who Peeta is to me; even if the general Capitol audience does not, they will find out soon enough.

My eyes finally land on one Capitol officer standing guard outside the room which I am guessing holds my son…. if the visitors waiting outside said room are anything to go by. I am moved that the line to see Peeta is close to stretching out the front Justice Building doors; I recognize several of his friends from school.

My eyes land on a Peacekeeper standing guard outside this room, and I approach. "Excuse me, Officer, may I request permission to see my son – my tribute?" I amend, too late.

The officer sends me a sympathetic smile. "Sorry, Miss Donner, no can do. Mentors are not allowed to meet with their tributes before the train. Unfair advantage, you see."

I gawp at him. "I'm asking to see him as his _mother_ , not as his mentor!" I actually am a little insulted that he thinks I would run afoul of what little rules there are in the Hunger Games. I've been at this business long enough.

The Peacekeeper can only send me a sorry smile again, and I back off. I don't want to make a scene, and run the risk of having it bite me – or worse, Katniss and Peeta – in the ass later.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I whirl around to stare into Merle's pained face. Behind him, Kaydilyn and my niece, Madge, are holding each other and weeping.

"Maysie! I'm sorry, I…."

I wordlessly touch Merle's cheek. "It's not your fault," I murmur. And it isn't. Effie was the one to draw the names, not him.

"Can…. can we see him?" Merle floats. "I don't know if it's legal, or if it might be viewed as a conflict of interest – I am the Mayor, after all, and…."

"Try it," I encourage him. "The Peacekeepers won't let me in, but you could probably make it through."

Merle nods resolutely and moves to take his place in line and say goodbye to his nephew. Seeing him, several of his Merchant constituents try and stand aside, to let him cut ahead of them in line, but he waves them off. Passing me, Kaydilyn squeezes my hand, before turning to sob into her handkerchief. My niece, Madge, throws her arms around me, also teary.

"Oh, Aunt Maysilee…."

I wordlessly rub her back. "I know…. I know…."

Madge moves on to get in line. I see him dance around an elderly Seam lady who is making for Katniss's holding room upstairs… and then my husband is in my arms, kissing me, and I am kissing him back, and we hold each other and sob while our tears fall on each other's cheeks.

Both Jonadab and Rye are too much in a daze still to say much of anything, though Rye's eyes and cheeks are as wet as mine. Mashing Danny's face in my hands, I kiss him deeply.

"I promise you, our son will come home alive."

He nods, though he looks torn. "What about… Katniss?"

I bite my lip, thinking of our godchild. "I…. I don't know. There's going to be 24 of them, Dannel; only one comes out."

Danny winces horribly; whatever is clawing at his conscience is clearly tearing him apart. He must feel like he cannot prioritize Peeta's life, if it will mean Katniss's death and thus hurting Belle, whom I know he still cares about, even if it's no longer in a romantic way. I must confess I am feeling the same emotional lacerations to my insides.

Despite this impossible choice, my husband makes one, though his eyes are tinged with grief as he does and he kisses me passionately again. "Bring our son home, Maysie. I don't care what you have to do – just bring him home alive."

I nod, whimpering. "I will…. I will…." We kiss again in hurried, desperate pecks, and I wave him and our other two sons forward to get in line. I hope the Peacekeepers will ensure that everyone who wants a visit with the tributes will get one. "Tell our son I love him." Danny nods to me.

My eyes lift up to where an admirably lengthy line is twisting its way down the spiral staircase up from the second floor; Katniss must be housed in the living quarters of the mayoral residence, where I once waited as a tribute. Right before her door, I see two very familiar heads of blonde hair. The Peacekeepers must be just about ready to start waving people through. Biting my lip, I hustle past the people in line up the stairs, catching Belle and Primrose just before they are admitted in.

"Belle…." Beyond her name, words fail me for a moment, until I manage to get out. "I will do all I can to bring Katniss back home to you."

Belle regards me sadly. "Best friends don't lie to each other, Maysie." She doesn't say anything else for a moment, but she doesn't have to – she must assume that, in the choice I will eventually have to make, I will choose to spare my own child over hers. "And if you try to deny it, and say you would save my child over your own, then you're not the kind of gal I can be friends with anyway."

That… is absolutely true, and she's right; I can't very well deny it.

Primrose is cuddled in her mother's arms, still small enough to be picked up and held. She is staring at me over Belle's shoulders, her sparkling blue eyes wet. I happen to glance down at my mockingjay pin, affixed to the breast of my dress as it has been every year for nearly a quarter of a century. Glancing back to Primrose, I get an idea.

"Primrose, baby…. Can you do something for me? This is really important," and I detach the fastener of my pin from my dress's fabric and hand the pendant over to her. "Can you give this to your sister, please, and tell her it's from Auntie Maysilee? Tributes are allowed to wear one token into the arena…. I want her to have this."

Prim nods meekly. For her part, Belle seems taken aback by my act of goodwill, but then the Peacekeeper officer is opening the doors and waving them through.

"Say hi to my goddaughter!" I call to my best friend's retreating back.

I move morosely back down the stairs, glancing up only long enough to scoot past the broad build of Clay Hawhorne's oldest son, Gale, in line. He is holding the hand of one of his little brothers, who looks to be about Primrose's age and is sniffling quietly.

With nothing else to do, I find a seat on a bench and wait, watching with increasing dread as both lines, upstairs and downstairs, start to dwindle. When the last of the people have been funneled through, white-plated guards deliver my son and my goddaughter into my hands. Resignedly, we meet up with Effie at the armored car and climb in, enroute to the train station named after me. Through his reflection in the windowpanes, I can see Peeta's eyes are red and puffy from crying, and he isn't trying to hide it. I let him emote it all out – it's OK to cry, especially in this case. I want to cry too, but for the sake of appearing strong for my tributes, I refrain.

We mount the train platform amidst a sea of paparazzi and board the train looking all but dead inside – well, everyone does except for Effie, who is bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement. The hydraulic doors close behind us and in the next moment, we are speeding away from District 12.

I am guaranteed to come back here. My son and my goddaughter may very well not.

* * *

Dinner is a silent affair. It is close to evening before Katniss is finally the one to break the tense peace that has permeated the dining car. Turning her head slowly to Peeta, her voice comes out calm, but nonetheless deadly. I don't think she is aware of how terrifyingly beautiful she is even when she is consumed with rage.

"This is all your fault," she spits at my son, tears streaming down her cheeks. After that declarative statement, her voice only continues to grow progressively louder and shriller. "I believed you! I trusted you! All your promises and your kisses and how you said we would be lucky! That none of us would be picked! And your kiss damned us all anyway!" Hot, angry tears are streaming down her face; Peeta is so shell-shocked that his tongue is silently trying to work, but no words come out. There seems to be nothing he can say.

I wonder if this might be the time to mention that the Reaping Kiss does not actually guarantee that you won't be Reaped; rather, it is designed and believed to give you luck more generally. Haymitch and I both got kissed on the morning of our Reaping, and we still were chosen anyway…. though the perceived luck from those kisses carried us all the way to the end together, and conferred onto me the Victors' Crown.

Katniss is still working herself up into a frenzy. "I can't believe I ever… I ever thought…." But she doesn't finish the sentence, saturated with bitter regret, before fleeing from the car in tears.

Effie blandly dabs at her lips with her napkin. "How rude!"

I am tempted to scream my own abuse at her. I don't agree with Katniss in regards to on whom the blame should fall. It certainly isn't my son. If it's anyone's fault, it's Effie's; she's the one who drew the names. For the first time since I began this arduous task known as mentoring, I am beginning to understand why some Victors treat their escorts with open hostility. For years, Chaff has felt himself completely justified in treating his district's escorts like dirt, because of how they do the Capitol's ugly work, picking kids to die for mere sport. While I myself have never subscribed to that view, I feel the impulse to do so now. To take out my misfortune on somebody…. instead of looking inward and wondering, _What if this whole situation is my fault?_

I come up out of my thoughts, and my frightened eyes meet Peeta's.

"Mom….?" And he sounds so much like the little boy who would burst into Danny's and my room in the middle of the night, whimpering about having a nightmare and asking if he could sleep in our bed tonight, that I nearly burst into tears. Never more have I wanted to reach over and hug him, but the clinical, mentoring side of my brain squashes the desire. I have a job to do, regardless of how much I have a deeply personal interest in this year's outcome, more than I ever have before. I cannot afford to let the intense love I feel for both of my tributes this year distract me from the hope that I can bring one of them home alive with me. That the Capitol, with what little mercy it has, will allow me to keep one of them.

Even though, as I cannot answer Peeta's unasked question beyond mumbling something about needing to go to bed, my greedy heart still cries out in protest that I must keep both of them. I _must_.

As I drag myself into my quarters, I vow to myself that I will bring one of them home. _I don't care what you have to do_ , my husband told me…. and neither do I. To the question of how far will I go to save one of my kids (and they are my kids, more than any of the other 46 previous, and now dead, tributes have been my kids), the answer is…. pretty damn far. To the ends of the earth. I will do anything – and I do mean _anything_ \- to make sure one of them wins.

Even as I have to remind myself, I can't play the Games _for_ them. Only Katniss and Peeta can do that. But which one of them _will_ do it – my youngest son or my goddaughter? Which one will I be allowed to keep, if I get to keep either of them at all? Which one will I have to choose?

I am adrift in a dreamless sleep before my head hits the pillow.


	25. Make Them Make a Choice

**Chapter 25: Make Them Make a Choice**

THWAP, THWAP, THAWP! "Mrs. Mellark?" Effie Trinket's voice politely trills in through the varnished wood, as I wake up in the near-darkness conjured by the black curtains.

"Yes?" I call out, woozy.

"Sorry to wake you, ma'am…."

"No, no, no, you didn't…." I dismiss, throwing back the covers and clambering out of bed. "I've been up for…. hours…." A yawn escapes me, catching on the last word.

"Well… I will be waiting in the dining car. I thought you and I might discuss some strategy before the children awaken."

 _The children_. Images of Katniss and Peeta swim in my head, at various ages. Katniss at four holding Prim for the first time. Peeta, at not quite two, taking his first steps towards me in the center of the Village. Both of them at fourteen, wrapped in a close embrace as they experienced their first real kiss, one that they both wanted…

So yesterday _wasn't_ just some horrible dream. Biting my lip until I taste the rusty tang of copper blood, I cross to the window purposefully and throw back the sash. The pink of early morning floods my quarters and even through the panes, I can smell the intoxicating scent of fresh dew. Plains of countryside are whipping by me in a blur…. District 9, perhaps? It will take us the better part of today to reach the Capitol, and I have to be on my A mentoring game by the time we get there.

Deciding that remaining in the clothes I wore yesterday will suffice for now (I'll change into something more suitable once we arrive in the city), I cross back to the door, ready to throw it open and face the day. Halfway across the room, I momentarily stop as I clue in on something Effie said: she called me Mrs. _Mellark_. I've been happily wed for over twenty years, and yet neither she, nor Dolly Evana before her, has ever referred to me by my married name. Yanking open the door, I cross down the corridor and step over into the next car. The dining car.

Effie Trinket is watching something on TV when I come in, quickly pausing the tape when she sees me enter. From the ostentatious flag and imposing architecture of a Justice Building, it must be a Reaping, though from which district, or whether it is one from this year or one from a previous Games, I cannot tell. I gently lower myself into the chair next to my escort, who suddenly seems to be having a very difficult time looking at me. Her lips are pursed oddly, and her hands tremble from where she is trying to hide them in her lap.

"The boy is your son, isn't he?" Trinket's voice is very, very small.

A more vindictive Victor – say, a Brutus or a Chaff – might sink the knife in and twist it. Mock her for being so slow on the uptake. If I wanted to use this moment to finally let her have it, let out all of my emotions from the past not-quite 24 hours, I could seize it. There wouldn't be a better time to do it.

But it still wouldn't make me feel better. It wouldn't change the situation in which Peeta, Katniss and I now find ourselves. And though there might be a plethora of reasons for which I would feel justified in unleashing my wrath –the least of which being that of the two escorts I've worked with, I have preferred Dolly's escorting to that of the young woman before me now – I'm too tired to do so. And frankly, now more sad than angry.

So all I do in response to Effie's question is whisper, pained, "Yes. My youngest."

If it were possible for her to feel worse, Effie does, at last daring to look me in the face. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know…."

"I don't want your apologies," I cut across her sharply, though I don't mean for the tone to sound so brusque. Effie leans back a little bit, cringing, stung. "You were just doing your job."

Effie decides she finds the asparagus on her plate far more interesting than continuing to make eye contact with me. By the overhead lighting, however, I can see moisture glistening in her irises – golden in color, I note. I wonder if Capitolites even wear special contacts as a fashion statement. Her bottom lip protrudes out, trembling, and I can't help but think of Primrose in this moment. One tear finally leaks from her eye, before she abruptly doubles over and fails to catch a sob before it flies.

I gaze at her in something close to amazement. Perhaps I've misjudged Effie Trinket all these years. Beyond seeming vapid, she always appeared to be an enthusiastic supporter of the Games, fulfilling her duties with a gusto that has always been a little off-putting to many of my more… jaded colleagues. So I never imagined that she, of all people, would become so wracked with guilt over whom exactly she selected for a fight to the death – at least, she never has before. And Reaping a descendant of a Victor, though by no means ubiquitous, is more common than either of us might care to admit. In the Capitol's view, it is past time for District 12 to suffer that humiliation – for _me_ to suffer it. It is our turn. Elena Perez, a sweet-faced woman from District 10 who triumphed forty years ago, saw both of her children go with me into my arena; friends of mine who knew her before the tragedy say she hasn't been the same since. And though the rumors give me a little bit of hope, that Abram Mills – the tubby boy who won five years ago partially by losing all that extra body weight and keeping it off after the arena – is the bastard son of Ben Cooper (the 29th Victor), I try not to cling to them. The rumors of Abram's parentage have not been substantiated, which means I can't say for certain whether or not the progeny of a Victor has ever won the Crown in his or her own right. Whether or not it can be done. I have to be strong, for Peeta – if he sees me crack the way I almost did last night, he will too.

"Do you know the girl?" Effie's voice has grown stronger, though not by much.

I wrestle with the lump in my throat. "My goddaughter. My best friend's baby. Her mother was Maid of Honor at my wedding."

Effie has now taken on the countenance of someone who wants to crawl into a hole and die. Doubling over again, she at last gives in to the urge to weep. "I'm…. I'm so sorry, Miss Donner…."

Well, at least she addressed me correctly this time. Whatever resentment has been lingering inside me evaporates in that moment. I will say this much about Effie, in comparison to her predecessor: She cares very much about the kids she picks; she wouldn't be so wracked with guilt if she didn't. And although Dolly cared about us in her own way, I don't believe she ever lost any sleep over or felt any regret for ultimately sending children to their certain death. I have a feeling that, no matter the outcome, Effie will be guilt-ridden about the fate of the two kids she pulled this year…

… And I surprise even myself when I realize that I don't want her to be. It may be the most thankless job in the world, but she does it. Someone has to. Slowly, I reach across the table and take her trembling hand in mine. Effie's sniffling subsides as she finally wills herself to gaze at me again.

I just smile at her softly. "I forgive you."

Effie lets loose another sob around a weak, and hopeful, smile, lacing her fingers tighter through mine. "Let's help one of them win, shall we?"

A pang shoots through me – _one_ of them…. There can only be one…. – but I ignore it, smiling back. "Sure."

A HISS from the hydraulic doors makes us both glance up, and here comes my son, smiling blearily. "Morning, Mama." He stoops to kiss my cheek, and I beam at him. He settles into a chair opposite us. "Never imagined Mommy would ever get to experience a bring-her-kid-to-work day…"

I laugh genuinely. He is trying to make me feel better, playing the jokester even though it is his life on the line… It is so _Danny_ …. Well, at least the joking part.

A moment later, there is another HISS as Katniss arrives, morosely taking a seat next to Peeta. I expect her to promptly change places when she realizes how close she is to him, but she doesn't, which fills me with relief. It's small comfort, however, as she doesn't acknowledge him, hands folded and head bowed in her lap. There are dark circles under her eyes. She too must have fallen asleep in the Reaping dress she wore yesterday, though I note with encouragement how my old mockingjay pin is affixed to the blue fabric, directly over her left breast.

If my goddaughter notices how Peeta is studying her with deep concern, she doesn't let on. Glancing between the two, Effie finally breaks the silence with, "Well, my dears, why don't we all watch the recaps of the Reapings?"

I am able to sort out contenders from the deadwood almost instinctively, as the playback begins. It's a mentoring skill that I have acquired over a very long career. By virtue of being a Career district, the District 1 kids will stick around for a while, but I am fairly confident in predicting neither one of them will ultimately take the Crown – both the boy, Marvel, and the girl, Glimmer, come across as ditzy and vain. Vainness leads to overconfidence, overconfidence leads to arrogance…. which can lead to fatal missteps.

Speaking of arrogance, we all stiffen a little in our seats when a hulking, blonde boy named Cato is called for District 2. He saunters onto the stage as though he has the Games already good and won. He will be Pack Leader, I am sure of it… and although Cato has reached the arrogance stage of a typical Career's braggadocio, I feel queasy as I conclude he has the skillset to back it up. His district partner, Clove, is petite and can't be any older than 15, which comes as a surprise. But judging by how the Quarry District's Victors are all beaming, pleased, and from the shifty look in her eyes, I have a feeling Clove will be just as deadly. Never judge a tribute's potential on the basis of their youth, I remind myself. I learned that lesson close to twenty years ago, just before I became pregnant with Peeta. I had written off 15-year-old Cecelia Rheys… until I couldn't anymore.

The rest of the Reapings seem to fly by after that. Beetee's boy from 3 seems smart, though he's also tiny. District 4 is in for quite a shock when a twelve-year-old boy with curly red hair is called… but no one older and stronger steps up to volunteer in his place. The girl from 5 is also a ginger, and comes across as sly and elusive. Districts 6 through 10 go by in a forgettable blur, though Peeta points out how the boy from 10 walks to the stage with a pronounced limp.

District 11 also selects a twelve-year-old, in the form of their girl this time. I silently consider how Katniss straightens in her seat and seems to pay attention for the first time all morning. The girl on screen now could be Prim with darker skin; Seeder appears anguished as she sets her hands on the little thing's shoulders. Sad moans can be heard, along with some discontented grumbling, though it's muted, by District 11 standards. The bad luck of the draw is quickly counteracted by their chosen boy, aged 18 – if the little girl, Rue, is a black Prim, then this giant called Thresh is a black Cato. He'll last for quite a while; Chaff evidently thinks so, for how he seems so pleased.

And then it's our turn. Prim is called, before a near-hysterical Katniss rushes forward to volunteer. Then Peeta is selected. For the rest of the coverage, Claudius and Caesar remain laser-focused on District 12. I almost want to blush with excitement. Much attention is made of how Peeta is mine; a photo is aired of Danny and I holding him, all smiles, just after his birth. It would be invasive if I didn't recognize the image – it was submitted alongside my son's birth announcement in the Capitol newspapers. But it is Katniss whom everyone is enchanted by. "A true beauty from the coalfields!" Caesar marvels, and I wouldn't be surprised if he isn't jolly due to regions…. far below. Peeta is watching Katniss as the host says this, but she doesn't pay him even the slightest of mind.

I flick the remote, and turn to my charges. Time for the hard part. "OK. The good news is that the media has crowned you as top contenders due to the attention you both brought. Use that. When we arrive in the Capitol and you begin training, do whatever is in your power to keep those Capitolites thinking you are winners."

Katniss scowls. "Because, deep down, you think we aren't?" Her accusatory tone kicks me off-balance for a moment.

"I'm not saying that," I pounce quickly. "I _know_ you both are winners, and I'm not just telling you that because you're both mine and I'm biased." Katniss's cheeks glow pink, the hardness in her expression dimming slightly. "Your stylists will control how much you stand out during the parade, but in training, I want you both to hide your true skills." I level Katniss with a pointed stare: _No bows and arrows_. I then do the same to my son: _No wrestling_. They both nod, comprehending the subliminal messages. "We'll be arriving in the Capitol by late afternoon and the stylists will want to get their hands on you immediately." _However_ , I think, _if one of them draws the short straw and ends up with an Antonia, I am putting in a request for a stylist transfer, proximity to the parade be damned._

* * *

Antonia mercifully retired the year after Katniss and Peeta were born, capping off what perhaps might be the most forgettable career in Capitol fashion history. The woman and man who greet us in the Remake Center, following a truly insane and enthusiastic greeting by the citizenry at the Capitol train station, already appear a damn sight nicer and wiser than my old stylist. I like the man in particular, Cinna, right away – and to my pleasant surprise and relief, Katniss seems to as well. I know from experience how Katniss isn't willing to let very many people in, but once she does, once she decides she likes you, she'll back you to the hilt. It's very much a Glen trait.

So far, Cinna is doing a remarkable job at ingratiating himself into Katniss's limited inner circle and staying there. "That was the most remarkable thing you did, for your sister… My name is Cinna."

"Katniss," my goddaughter mumbles in reply. She turns into herself shyly. "So you're here to make me look pretty?"

I note how Peeta glances to her sharply, bewildered, as if he can't fathom how Katniss could possibly think of herself as anything _but_ pretty. Cinna just smiles at my godchild easily. "I'm here to help you make an _impression_ ," he clarifies, gallantly holding out his arm. Tentatively, Katniss takes it, and they stride away to the salon chairs.

"So, they assigned you to District 12…?"

"I _asked_ for District 12," Cinna smiles, further earning Katniss's respect.

Behind me, Peeta and his stylist, Portia, are already hitting it off famously. She even makes a point to stop me, as she leads him to the makeover chairs, and say, "You've done a remarkable job with him, Maysilee! He looks just like you."

I beam proudly. "Thank you."

I decide to step outside the Remake Center and get some fresh air. Soon after, Effie joins me. It hasn't even been a few minutes before a happy shout makes me turn my head.

"Hey, Mama." Finnick's million-watt grin floods my vision before he is pecking me on the cheek. I pretend to eye him up and down, bemused.

"Funny, I don't recall giving birth to you." I squirm at the thought that, if I had, he would have been born the year after I won, my first year as a mentor. Technically, I _am_ old enough to be Finnick's mother, but barely.

He throws back his head and chortles, drawing the beautiful girl on his arm further into his side. "You know you've practically adopted me anyway." He nuzzles his face into the waves of auburn hair. The woman attached to them beams up at him like he channels the light of the sun.

I smile at her kindly. "Hello, Annie."

Annie Cresta became Victor the summer after Katniss's father died. She was a very promising tribute, but tragically went insane after her own district partner was betrayed and beheaded by the rest of the Career pack. When a dam in the arena broke later on, she won because she was the best swimmer.

In the ensuing four years, Finnick has been glued to her side, a point that has left me more than a little curious as to the nature of their relationship. They certainly seem to be holding each other now with that intimacy that can only be seen in lovers.

Finnick murmurs something to her, and she shyly waves. Finnick nods to me, impressed. "You certainly got yourself a good crop for once. Our tributes suck ass. The boy's going down at the Cornucopia, and if the girl doesn't go down with him, I'll be shocked."

I nod sympathetically. "Who are yours?" Finnick asks conversationally. "Know their names?"

Ah. So he clearly didn't watch the entire coverage of the Reapings, or at least the tail end. I still manage to get out, "He's my son."

Finnick freezes, sea-green eyes widening. "Wait…. not your littlest one? Not the one you've always shown me School Picture day shots of? …. Peeta, isn't it?"

I nod grimly. "That's him."

Finnick looks shattered. "It's… it's happening again," he bemoans. "I thought after Abram, we'd be done with that for a while." (I don't bother to correct the record). He sighs heavily. "Well, at least we know who you'll be choosing between the two of them. Though your girl seems fierce."

I cringe again. "It would be an easy choice… if she wasn't my goddaughter."

Now Finnick nearly topples over. "Your…. goddaught…?" Quite suddenly, he rounds on Effie. "Trinket, what the _fuck_ have you _done_?" His tone is as accusing as Katniss's was on the train, though his voice is also colder than ice.

In response, Effie bursts into tears anew. Finnick just regards her with absolute disgust. I glower at him, chiding but soft.

"Nice. Classy. I just spent the entire morning calming her down, so thanks for that. Looks like someone went to the Chaff Habarti School of 'Let's-All-Treat-Our-Escorts-Like-Crap.'"

"Someone say my name?" And here is the man himself. Eyes sad, he wraps me into a hug without another word. I nod silently.

"Don't you want to?" Finnick ogles me. "Mama Maysilee, she drew your _own son_! Don't tell me it was an accident!"

 _No. It wasn't_ , I think. And with how naïve she can be, I doubt the possibility of a rigged Reaping (I wish I could say such a thing is the stuff of conspiracy theories) has ever occurred to Effie. And technically, she didn't Reap Katniss. She Reaped her sister; Katniss just volunteered. Regardless… "… Whether or not Peeta's drawing was an accident isn't relevant here. I am most concerned with keeping him alive."

Finnick squeezes my hand. "We'll try and help you," he tells me sincerely. My eyes prick with tears at his generosity. He nuzzles Annie close. "Come, Annie." The might-be-a-couple leaves.

Chaff whispers in my ear. "A word alone?"

I nod. Glowering at Effie like she's the scum under his shoe, Chaff steals me away into a small garden in the shadow of the Remake Center. He procures an egg-shaped device from his pocket. At my quizzical look, he explains.

"White-noise amplifier. Little invention of Beetee's. Should buy us a few minutes." A green light illuminates the top as he turns it on, and he begins talking in rapid-fire immediately.

"Listen up. I want you to tell me everything you can about both your kids, because judging by your reaction, they both mean a lot to you."

I tell him what he no doubt already knows: Peeta is my son. Though when I get to the part about how Katniss is my goddaughter, Chaff perks up.

"Fuck-in-nay…. They really gave you an impossible choice, didn't they?"

I nod, sniffling. "That's not the worst part. My boy is in love with her…. and I think Katniss might love him in return."

This gets Chaff's attention. I can practically see the gears turning in his head. Slowly, a hopeful grin comes over his face. A glint in his eye.

"I think I have an idea. Now, it's going to break a few rules. But if it works… it'll help everybody. And if we play it right, it might even help you get _both_ of your kids back alive."

I freeze, my heart hammering in my ribcage. Two tributes…. Two Victors coming home alive? It's never been done. It's forbidden, absolutely. "How?" I clutch at his one good hand.

Chaff's eyes gleam. "Every year, we Victors have to make a choice between our two tributes, right? Choose who we want to keep alive. Given the circumstances, you can't make that choice this year without being torn apart. It's the Capitol who has put you in this position, Maysie. So pass the buck over to them. Make _them_ have to make a choice, for once. Make _them_ have to choose. And the way you do that is by presenting your boy and your goddaughter as a team. Together. As lovers. If you make Katniss and Peeta one entity, each of them indistinguishable without the other, the Capitol will feel what you're feeling. They won't be _able_ to choose. And if they are unable to choose…. They'll have to demand to either have them both, or neither at all."

I can understand exactly what he is telling me. A star-crossed lovers story. I think back to one play I read in Literature class by that olden author, William Shakespeare. _Romeo and Juliet_. In this modern reimagining of the tale, the one that Chaff is proposing, I know my son will play the part of Romeo willingly. But will Katniss want to play Juliet, especially if, as I suspect, she seems at best uncertain of her feelings towards my youngest son…?

"Don't worry, I'll talk to Plutarch. He's in the Gamemakers, and a friend." He sends me a loaded look, and I recall a letter he sent to me some years ago, about how there might be a mole in the Gamemakers' ranks. I squeeze Chaff close, pecking him on the cheek, and I dash back to the Remake Center. He may already have a design concept in mind, but if anyone can be a miracle worker, if anyone can flex with the flow and change this up, I imagine it would be my goddaughter's new stylist. I have to find Cinna.


	26. These Kids are on Fire

**Chapter 26: These Kids Are on Fire**

Luckily, when I find him in the dressing rooms assigned to Twelve, my goddaughter's new stylist seems to have independently absorbed the conceptual seed Chaff has planted inside me. When I ask Cinna how he came by such amazing intuition, he silently turns on the TV mounted on the wall, and selects a playback of the District 12 Reaping. When Peeta mounts the stage, he points out the way he and Katniss are gazing at each other with absolute heartbreak. I see it too, and I realize: if people already don't suspect they are in love with each other, then I'm President Snow. Of course, with how vapid the Capitol audience can be, they might need it spelled out for them; as to how that will happen, I'm less certain. I'll worry about it later. Additionally, in sitting through a third viewing of the Reaping, I notice something I had not noticed before. When Effie announces Katniss as the female tribute from District 12, a great many of our people in the Square press three fingers to their lips and hold them aloft. An image of Glen performing the same ritual flashes through my brain, and I gasp: it's a sign of respect, likely only known among the Seam folk. I guess I didn't notice it in real time because I was in such a state of shock. Perhaps this was what made Chaff target Katniss as a potential ally for the rebel cause. District 11 knows a thing or two about courage – they've been willing to mix it up with the Peacekeepers more than any other district.

I shake my head. I'm getting ahead of myself. I have to remain calm and take everything one step at a time. Pace myself. If I want this too much (though I do desire to have both my kids come home alive, very, _very_ much), I just know I'm going to fuck it up along the way.

That means, as Cinna and I turn back to where Flavius and Octavia, Katniss's prep team, are just finishing up her makeup, I need to focus on getting my godchild and my son through the parade first and hopefully rake in sponsors from that. Then, we will turn to training, then the interviews, and then the rest will follow. One step at a time, Maysilee….

When Katniss and Peeta are finally released to face me, I am stunned by how… flawless each of them looks. The Capitol appreciates a certain kind of beauty, one that only a few tributes throughout history have ever seemed to possess naturally (Finnick Odair is a perfect example). Nevertheless, I am pleased by what little improvements Cinna, Portia and their teams needed to make to get these two ready for primetime. Katniss, of course, has always been a very attractive young lady – a gorgeous, perfect mix between Belle and Glen. Whereas Peeta is pretty much his dad everywhere, complemented mostly by my coloring.

I nod once, the firmness in my jaw and in my approval masking how I want to cry. "You both look splendid," I judge. "Let's get you both to the chariots." Allowing myself a closer look at their outfits as I walk beside them to the stablehouse, I note the faint, shapely indentations in both of their costumes. The pattern looks like…. a tongue of flame? What is it supposed to symbolize? I look to Cinna and he must recognize the question in my eyes for he merely shakes his head with a smile. I am to wait and see, just like everyone else in the audience. From the way the stylist's own eyes sparkle, it is clear he can hardly wait to show off his work.

We arrive at the District 12 chariot at the back of the line. I only note a few of the other district delegations and their tributes; though some of them do rubberneck to study curiously the black and skintight jumpsuits worn by Katniss and Peeta. My son gallantly holds out a hand to his intended, and she gratefully accepts his offer to help her into the chariot. What a gentleman. Cinna passes a small object into Katniss's palm; it looks like a clicker.

"Press this when you're ready," he instructs. My stomach clenches a little in anxiousness: how will Katniss possibly know when the right moment will be? Again, I must be giving away everything on my face for Cinna nods to me reassuringly: _She's got this. I trust her_. I realize I should too. My goddaughter is nothing if not ingenious and resourceful.

I step back with Cinna and Portia as the distant cheers of the crowd signal us that the District 1 chariots are starting to move forward. I had better get up into the stands along the Avenue of Tributes and find a good seat. Waving goodbye to my tributes and their prep teams, I take my leave.

The Avenue of Tributes has actually always been one of my favorite places in the Capitol (other than the penthouse suite in the Training Center reserved for District 12 every year). There is also an Avenue of Victory several blocks further south, which is lined on either side by marble statues of each of history's 73 Victors. I have always maintained that my statue there is a much better likeness than the one that was unveiled in the District 12 schoolyard, soon after I came home. The year Cecelia Rheys won, I took Rye to the Avenue of Victory to show him Mommy's statue. I don't think he understood what it was all about (he _was_ only three months old at the time) but we made a day of it and had a great time. It also helped me cope with the recent loss of my girl tribute, who had just perished in a rockslide in the arena, partially at Cecelia's hands.

"There she is! Hey, little darling!"

I glance up from watching my feet as I maneuver myself into a row in the bleachers. A big old grin on his face, my old mentor is waving me down. Smiling wanly, I excuse myself past the crunch of people to join him.

Brutus Barsetti is still the most annoying and yet amusing SOB this side of the Appalachian Mountains. He's still bald, though I am of the opinion that the look no longer works for him at 44 than it did when he was 20. Still, we embrace warmly, and he slings a friendly arm over my shoulder.

"Where you been, Maysie? I've been kinda lonely since getting here." I wouldn't have guessed that – he appears even more buoyant and gung-ho than he normally is… and that enthusiasm is pretty damn high to begin with.

Glancing down into the street far below, I can see the Career chariots rumbling along the Avenue. Brutus is grinning ear-to-ear with pride, and he points out his boy, decked out to look like Ares, the ancient Roman god of war. He is adorned with gold, giving off the distinct vibe that the Capitol has crowned him Victor already. "See Cato? You're looking at the Victor of the 74th Hunger Games. And I will have mentored him to glory!"

I smile tightly. "I don't know. My kids are pretty fierce this year."

Brutus side-eyes me, chuckling awkwardly, as though he doesn't believe me. "Who are they anyway?" he tries making conversation, if only to indulge me. "The girl who stepped up for her sister looks like a hot piece of ass."

My grin is now so strained, my teeth are clenched. "That's my goddaughter you're mentally masturbating to, Brutus. You're that hard-up, go screw Cecelia or a prostitute!"

Brutus has the good sense to gape at me. "Goddaughter?" he splutters. "You're kidding!"

I shake my head. "I wish I was."

Rubbing at the back of his neck, my old mentor quickly changes the subject, while District 6 trudges on by below us. "What about the boy? I watched the tape of your district's Reaping; you seemed…. out of it, somehow. When his name was called."

I cock an eyebrow. "Wouldn't you and Cecelia be, if it was your Aaron's name who was called? Wouldn't you be distraught, if it was _your_ son?" Tears are pricking at my eyes, but I don't let them fall; I refuse to cry in front of this man. Had I ever done so when I was still his tribute, he would have called it weakness.

Brutus's cobalt eyes are as big as the diamonds they must mine in the Nut, District 2's largest quarry. "He… he isn't the one who you had to bring to the Capitol during Cecelia's year? Not the one who threw up all over me right after the trumpets sounded?"

My lips upturn into the tiniest of smirks at the memory, though my eyes are still gutted. "No, that was my middle kid, Rye. Effie Reaped my youngest…. Peeta."

Brutus doesn't quite seem to know what to do with his face. There's a part of him that clearly wants to exude some empathy (such as he can muster it), but the dominant part of him – the part that thirsts for glory in the Games – wins out. "What a shame, Little Darling. I'm sorry." He shrugs. "Well, that's just the spirit of the Games, I guess." He smiles at me faintly. If he had tried any less to grant me sympathy in the only way he knows how to, I would probably feel disgusted with him, but instead I just feel exhausted.

That feeling quickly goes away when a deafening roar splits the air, and everyone's attention is drawn towards the far end of the avenue, back near the voms.

Brutus tries to crane his eyes over everyone else's heads, actually curious. "Who the hell is that for…?"

When he and I both finally get a good look, my jaw drops. My heart leaps.

My son and my godchild are literally on fire.

The flames lick up the synthetic material of their jumpsuits, though neither of them burns or otherwise experiences any harm. They stare straight ahead, a united front, dark and mysterious, and when Peeta hefts his fist in the air, his fingers laced through those of Katniss, the audience goes even more berserk. On the Jumbotron, Claudius and Caesar look to be undergoing a collective stroke together, and I am deliciously satisfied at how Brutus's jaw is nearly on the floor of the bleachers. He recovers enough during Snow's speech to glower at me, as if the fashion designs are somehow _my_ fault, and I just smirk innocently and shrug.

When the tributes are released to their mentors, Brutus is not the only one who is glaring daggers at my kids. Clove is all good and ready to carve up my goddaughter like she's a Winter Festival turkey. Cato is about as bad as Brutus in ogling her. Chaff and Seeder show better sportsmanship and Effie is so thrilled, someone might mistake her for being stoned.

I can feel my mobile phone with its temporary SIM card ringing off the hook in my pocket, and I brush it aside for now, at least long enough to whisk my kids to the elevators and ride up to the penthouse suite. I order them both to bed early, seeing as how they will need a fresh start to begin Training come the morning. Peeta makes a show of acting petulant, like how he would sometimes get when he was five and didn't want to go to bed, until I finally have to feign sternness with him and order him to bed by use of his full name. Effie is terribly amused by this; though I can't be sure I actually saw her smiling, I think Katniss is too.

I stay up later than everyone else, seated at my writing desk lit by a single lamp and going over my notes. It's lighter studying than I've ever had to do before, as I have cared for both of these kids since they were in diapers. One of them literally came _out_ of me! The school records provided to me by the District 12 headmaster are almost remedial learning; I signed off on Peeta's report card often enough.

Then I move on to the sponsors, replying back to voicemail messages. I put in a request to the Daughters of the Panemian Revolution, who are usually so generous with their funds and tend to back tributes who make a splash at the parade. I then place an initial call to the Capitol Free Love Society. They're a group of old biddies who have always been one of my staunchest supporters. The ladies are mostly high, believe that my love story with Haymitch Abernathy was the greatest romance of our time, and that the world essentially ended when Haymitch died in my arms. The summer after Peeta was born, when I mentioned on a call how I had named my newborn son partially after my fallen district partner, two of the women were sent into such an emotional ecstasy, they had to be admitted to the hospital. Even nearly a quarter of a century later, there are no shortage of "Haysilees" (that's what they call themselves) still in the Capitol. Their tagline is "If Jack could have fit on that door, Haymitch could have survived that stab wound" – whatever the fuck _that_ means.

I work until my eyelids start to grow heavy before deciding to call it a night. I will need to conserve as much energy as I can for the harder days, which are unfortunately still ahead.

* * *

When prepping Katniss and Peeta for training, I drill into them what I told them on the train yesterday: "Do _not_ , under any circumstances, show your hands. Don't let the Careers know what you're good at." Now that my kids made a statement at the parade, Brutus's charges and the District 1 tributes will be watching my son and my goddaughter closely, hoping to learn what they can do. My own fears of him seem to manifest themselves when I instruct, "Most of all, avoid the District 2 boy. Cato. He's going to be Pack Leader." Images are swimming in my head of Cato trying to rape Katniss after getting her alone in a corner somewhere, or of Peeta trying to challenge him on the mat, only for the bigger boy to nearly kill him in a chokehold.

"Oh," I finish, making it sound almost like an afterthought. "And I want you two to stick together like glue."

Thankfully, the kids don't question my advice. Over the next three days, they come back with reports of the new things they have learned.

"I met a trainer over at the Long-Range Weapons Station, Autine," Katniss tells me one day. "He was… actually nice. Says he knows you well."

I smile fondly. "Proximo. He was working that station when _I_ was a tribute. Gods, he's gotta be… close to 50 now."

Katniss shrugs. "He sure didn't look it." I blink, taken aback by the closest Katniss will probably ever get to saying ' _He's cute_.' Peeta also seems to read into this statement, and I almost laugh at his envious expression. As for my son's reports, his are more muted, going not much beyond sharing what new skills he's been learning. I don't let myself worry over it.

At the end of the three days, Katniss and Peeta are called in for their private sessions with the Gamemakers. Before they leave for their final morning of training, before they will have to wait to be seen throughout the afternoon, I impart them with this bit of counsel: "Make sure they remember you."

It is certainly the longest final afternoon and evening of training I have ever experienced, even more than my own year. I pace the penthouse frenetically. I try and distract myself by placing more calls to sponsors, which seems to go much better and is more productive. Effie is a big help, keeping me focused.

But as the sun is setting and Katniss finally appears in the elevators, she looks shaken. No, more than that – she appears panicked, nearly in tears.

"What happened, sweetie?" I ask her, taking her hands and guiding her to the wrap-around couch.

In typical Katniss fashion, she tries to weasel away from the difficult, emotional, vulnerable question. "I'm fine…"

"Katniss Magenta Everdeen, I know you better than that. Now what happened?" She glowers at me in a way that reminds me so much of Belle when she would get upset, but I only cock an eyebrow. _I can use the full name on you too, young lady._

Katniss ducks her head into her lap. "I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers." She almost whispers it, but I catch it anyway.

I stare. "What? Why?"

"I was one of the last ones to go!" she splutters, and I will myself to reserve judgment and listen until she has fully explained herself. "They were tired and bored after seeing 22 other kids all goddamn day, and they were paying more attention to some stuck, suckling pig than they were to me. So I…. shot at them. My arrow plucked the apple clean out of the pig's mouth. Then I left." She's blushing furiously.

I sit back, arms crossed over my chest as I consider all that I've just heard. Honestly, Katniss's actions could go one of two ways – either benefit her quite greatly, or deep-six her very, very badly. Evidently, she must believe the result will be the latter. I have to reassure her.

And, anyway…

"Good for you."

She raises her grey eyes to mine, blinking. "Huh?"

"If they weren't giving you your due, then you made them give of their time and pay attention to you. That's your right, as a tribute."

Katniss turns further pink. "I guess I took your 'Make sure they remember you' advice too literally, huh?"

I laugh. "Perhaps. We won't know until Caesar announces the score returns tonight. In the meantime, try to relax."

Peeta soon arrives, the last tribute seen of all. When I ask my son how it went, he merely grunts out, "Fine." I frown, but don't press him for details. I cannot escape the nagging feeling that something is wrong. I decide to wait him out, and hope Peeta will come to me when he is ready. I just hope that moment won't come too late.

That evening, Caesar broadcasts all two-dozen training scores live. Cato and his Career allies from his district and District 1 rack up 9s and 10s. Thresh also gets a 10. The rest range from pretty average to downright forgettable.

"And now, for the youngest boy of the District 12 beauty Maysilee Donner, it is Peeta Mellark…!"

 _Caesar skipped Katniss_ , I blink, frowning. In every structured event pre-Games, the tributes are always presented in a gendered order – girl, boy. Why would Caesar change that rule right at the end of the night? Unless…

I surface out of my thoughts long enough to hear Caesar give my son a score of 8. Right behind the Careers.

Cinna whistles, impressed. "Where did you say this kid came from?"

"My womb," I quip, smirking impishly. Portia nearly chokes into her drink from laughter, which makes me chuckle. I beam at my baby proudly. "I'm so proud of you, Peetey!" Peeta winces at my pet name for him, but lets it slide. I think I catch Katniss smirking in an almost… tender way.

"And finally, we have the lovely Katniss Everdeen! With a score of…." Caesar pauses for a long moment, checking the paper in front of him, then checking it again, as if he can't quite believe what is written there.

"…. 11."

Effie lets out a shriek of excitement and Cinna belly laughs triumphantly. Katniss's tongue is hanging nearly out of her mouth. Me? I'm smirking like a smug bastard who just got off on bail. _Chew on THAT, Brutus_.

Peeta is also stunned, coupled with what is clearly immense pride. "Congratulations," he breathes to his crush. She nods to him politely, and Peeta's grin of pride widens. "This is amazing! Katniss, I'm so proud of you, I could kiss you!"

Everyone falls silent, all of us looking at my goddaughter. Katniss is blushing bright red, but makes no moves to respond to Peeta's praise before merely getting up and rounding the couch. Just before she exits the room, she abruptly turns back, stares straight at my son and stammers out. "Good… good night." Then she flees.

Portia seems stumped. "What the hell was that?" No one answers her.

Cinna pops the cork on some champagne, pouring the wine liberally and raising his glass in a toast. "To Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on…. Fire!"

We all copy him and give three cheers. I am beaming, more hopeful than I have ever been that I might really be able to save one of my kids, and possibly both of them, if I can get away with it.

Simultaneously, I am more terrified than I have ever been, for largely the exact same reasons, plus several others.

For now, there is a giant red target on my goddaughter's back. Suddenly, she is the one to beat. The one everyone will now want to kill…. especially Brutus's boy, Cato.


	27. A Pair of Star-Crossed Lovers

**Chapter 27: A Pair of Star-Crossed Lovers**

I have just concluded a two-hour interview prep session with Peeta, in which we landed on an angle of likeability and self-deprecating humor that will no doubt have Caesar and almost certainly the audience eating out of his hand.

But I still think there is something that my youngest son doesn't want to tell me.

From the way his expression and posture have been waffling, it is clear that he wants to admit something, but doesn't seem to know quite how to get the words out, or perhaps worse still, he is unsure as to how I will react. Finally, even my own patience has worn thin. The suspense has gotten to me.

"OK, that's it – what's going on? Whatever you need to say, say it."

Peeta raises his eyes to mine almost guiltily. "How did you know…?"

"Peeta Haymitch Mellark, I'm your mother. I know everything about you. And so I damn well know when you don't want to tell me something because you think I might get mad. Now what is it?"

Peeta grinds his teeth together, and even sheepishly rubs the back of his neck in a way that actually reminds me of Brutus. At last, he wills himself to stare me in the face.

"The other day, Cato approached me. About the possibility of joining up with the Career pack."

My irises widen. Initially, I have no idea what to make of this. Outsider tributes getting an invitation into the Career pack is not at all that common an occurrence. It usually only happens if one or more fighters in the initial band of six are perceived to be wanting in strength or other areas, and if a certain tribute proves him or herself useful, such as positive attention from the media. Sometimes, an alliance offer can be handed down at the last minute if a tribute nabs a particularly exceptional training score.

Thumbing my way through all of those criteria, I realize that the conditions are ripe this year for the Careers to court an outsider tribute to join their crowd. Both of Finnick's kids scored unusually poorly in Training – hell, their boy is a preteen shrimp who looks to be even smaller than Gilla Callan (may she rest in peace) ever was. Cato would, therefore, want to compensate for being essentially down two men…, which he likely will be within the opening minutes of the Games, if initial wagers of the Cornucopia bloodbath are anything to go by.

There's just one problem: it seems to me that Cato is courting the wrong outsider tribute. Don't get me wrong; I am as proud as a peacock that Peeta received such a fine score. But Katniss scored an 11 – the highest of the entire field. Wouldn't it make more sense for Cato to get a feeler for my headstrong goddaughter? Certainly, the little shit seems attracted to her. I bristle at the thought. He'll have to get in line – it's my son who has actually kissed the seemingly untamable girl… multiple times, might I add. But Cato has raised no such overtures to my godchild for an alliance.

Something else isn't right. If Cato really was sincere about forging an alliance – however temporary – with Peeta… then why hasn't Brutus phoned me about drawing up an alliance contract? That's the customary action to take, between mentors.

I decide to buy myself a little time by probing for more information. "When did this happen?" I ask mildly.

"Lunch on the second day," Peeta supplies.

My shoulders tense. "Did you show off your strength?" I demand coldly. If he went against what I told him to do all this time, and then lied about it, well…. then I _will_ be angry.

Peeta shakes his head vigorously. "I didn't have to. I guess he must have been watching me, saw how I am well built, and wanted to know more. But I didn't wrestle anyone or dead-lift anything to give away my strength, Mother – I promise you that!" I can tell from his voice that he's being honest.

I nod slowly, letting him know I believe him. "What do _you_ think about this? Getting in with the Careers is always a risky bet, Peeta. What would you hope to accomplish?"

I shouldn't be as surprised as I am when he has a ready answer for me. "To protect Katniss. Lead them away from her, if I can. Cato and the others… they were staring at her. During Training. And even if she wasn't a target for them before last night's scores were handed down, she definitely is now."

I nod grimly, conceding the point. Peeta's eyes are hopeful, thinking this is a terribly clever plan – act as a kind of double agent to lead the Careers away from Katniss. He clearly wants to do it, and is asking for my blessing. I would think it a terribly clever plan myself.

If not for…

"Don't do it."

Peeta's big, blue eyes blink. "Why not?"

"I will _tell_ you why not." And I go through all the evidence – or rather, lack of it – that Cato's overtures are sincere.

"You think you'll be able to use Cato? Well, I hate to tell you this, but he probably already expects that, and is intending to use you right back! You'll just end up dead. Careers can be arrogant, Peeta, it's true, but that doesn't mean they're stupid. And Cato is an arrogant son-of-a-bitch, but do not confuse that for his being dumb. He's no Orchus."

Peeta frowns. "Who's Orchus?"

I wave it away. "It's an expression. Victor lingo. Orchus was the Victor of the 3rd Games, the very first Victor from District 11. 'Acting like an Orchus' generally means someone is acting stupidly, because historians' general consensus is that Orchus struggled with mental retardation."

"Oh."

"And you would be very much acting like an Orchus if you think you can trust this Cato guy, or pull one over on him. Stay far, far away from him." At his crestfallen look, I smile softly. "I know you want to protect Katniss. And I know how you feel about her. But you have to remember: Katniss is just as capable as you are. She can handle herself. And if she can get her hands on a bow, well then, Panem help any other tribute who crosses her!"

Peeta brightens. "You really think she can win?"

"I really do, just as I really think you could win just as easily."

Peeta's smile is an exact replica of my own. "You're sweet, Mom, but you don't have to pretend with me." I don't respond to this; if I tried to, I think I might cry. My son is wringing his hands again, and once again searches my eyes vulnerably. "Do you really think the angle we've played out is going to work? Katniss has always seemed like she doesn't quite know what to do with her feelings. How to express them. What if she is angry with me?" He is referring, of course, to the big showstopper moment we cooked up – about how Peeta is finally going to confess his love for the girl of his dreams on national television. It was actually Peeta's idea, and knowing how I need something to portray my two tributes as secret lovers, I enthusiastically helped him along with it.

I smile at him tenderly. "I don't think you will be saying anything that Katniss doesn't already know, or at least suspect." I reach out to squeeze his hand. "Don't leave yourself in agony over it. It took me some time to admit I had greater feelings for your father – we were dear friends for a long time before we got married, and he had been dating someone else for a few years. Pretty seriously, I would say." Peeta looks like he wants to ask whom his dad's ex-girlfriend might have been; I decide it probably wouldn't help him or Katniss if I let him in on that particular factoid. When I don't go into details, my son exhales and smiles, feeling a little bit better.

"And," I add quickly, "no matter how Katniss responds, or what she says… at least you'll know you didn't leave anything unsaid."

"Thanks, Mom."

"You're welcome, honey," I beam. "Can you send in your sweetheart, please?" I give him a wink, and he laughs, before leaving. A minute later, Katniss takes his place in the conference chair across from me.

"Now, sweetie, so far you have everything going for you: quite a memorable impression at the parade. The highest training score. You have generated a lot of buzz; I've already fielded quite a few sponsor calls for you. To really seal the deal on sponsorships, a great interview with Caesar will be critical. Let's start with the basics: Caesar _will_ ask you about that 11, almost guaranteed. When he does…. play coy. Don't let on exactly how you got it. And now that we've gotten that one Don't out of the way, let's dive right in to what you need to Do…"

We start off by doing some roleplaying (in my close to a quarter-century of doing this, I have yet to find a better alternative adverb for what Brutus once called 'kinky') and mock questions. Almost immediately, we run into problems. It isn't that Katniss is hostile; it's more that she's reticent and stilted. Shy to open up. I finally decide we need a different approach.

"OK, you know how I said to pretend I'm Caesar when asking the questions? – Stop doing that," I instruct gently. "Being shy is fine, plenty of tributes do it, but a good mentor once told me that acting shy on the interview stage will not make you Victor… or get you sponsors."

Katniss actually scowls at this and folds her arms almost petulantly. "Why should I pretend to be something I'm not?"

I chuckle at this. "I hardly think I would describe you as shy, Katty, and you wouldn't either. You wouldn't have practically stuck your tongue down my son's throat on Reaping Morning if you were shy." Tellingly, this seems to hit a nerve, and Katniss blushes. I don't press the advantage, not wanting to overplay my hand, but my heart swells with hope on behalf of my son.

Katniss reverts back on topic, still whining a little, but as I listen, it's understandable why she is feeling the way she does. "Auntie Maysilee, these gamblers are just looking to make good on their payouts. They're betting on how long I'll live! That's all I'm worth to them. Why should I tell them anything else about me when I already know they won't care to listen?"

She's smart, this girl. Luckily, I have been at this business for long enough to know how the Capitol works. "It's not quite that simple, sweetheart. These sponsors are looking for more than just someone who knows how to kill other kids. They're looking for someone who can give them a show. Who has a compelling life story. You have that already. You volunteered to save your sister. Your parents had a beautiful romance. People want to hear about all of that, in your own words. Let them see the _real_ you, Katniss, because despite what you might think, the real you is pretty damn interesting."

"But I…."

"OK: forget the sponsors for a moment. Forget the Gamemakers. Forget even Peeta." (Again, something weird passes over Katniss's face, almost as though she is stricken by the very thought of forgetting Peeta). "Let's take the bad advice I gave you earlier and put it in reverse: instead of pretending I'm Caesar, when you are actually up onstage with the man, pretend you are talking to me. When you give your answers."

Katniss nods slowly, wary of the idea but willing to give it a try. I smile.

"Great. Now: tell me about your sister…."

* * *

That evening, I slip backstage in the Capitol Recital Hall to check on my son and goddaughter. When Cinna ushers me back into Katniss's dressing room, I freeze for a moment, my jaw dropping. It's probably good my son hasn't laid eyes on his crush yet; if he did, he would be sporting quite the tent in his pants that even romantically clueless Katniss might notice.

My best friend's daughter is clad in a beautiful, fiery red dress. Her hair is done up in the signature braid she likes, and just the right touch of rouge on her cheeks makes her glow. The only thing that doesn't add to the gorgeous ensemble is the scowl on my goddaughter's face, which in any other context would be adorable, if not for the fact that she will be up onstage in less than an hour and will need to present herself as likeable.

I feel myself getting a little teary. "You look amazing, Katniss…"

She rounds on me. "I don't _feel_ amazing!" she snaps. Beside me, Cinna holds down a chuckle and shakes his head.

Smiling softly, I take Katniss's face in my hands. "Just be yourself, sweetheart. Just be you." I kiss the top of her forehead.

Cinna also glides up and clasps her hands. "Remember, it's OK to be nervous. If you get stuck, just think of something or someone that makes you happy: your sister. Your Auntie here. Even me – I'd like to think we're friends."

A real, genuine smile comes over my goddaughter's face, and I have the sneakiest suspicion that the person she is thinking of at the moment is none of the above. I fight the urge to smirk in smug pleasure.

Then the announcer is calling all the tributes to the stage, and Cinna is shooing me out of the wings. He and I scramble to find good seats in the house; we scarcely have sat down when the house lights dim, Caesar bounds onstage in some periwinkle ensemble, and the interviews begin.

The Careers all range from arrogant (Cato), to sexy (Glimmer) to ferocious (only slightly non-serious coming from Clove) to likeable but dopey (Marvel). The girl from 5 is also sly and mysterious. Thresh gives strictly monosyllabic answers and Rue is cute and adorable. Everyone else before my kids is completely forgettable.

Then the buzzer is sounding, and Katniss is walking to the stage in her beautiful red dress. I sit up a little straighter in my seat and grope for Cinna's hand in the dark; he squeezes my fingers tightly. _Oh…. come on, sweetheart…_

"What?" Katniss blurts stupidly, and I can't help but feel a little déjà vu from my own interview when I also completely missed the first question due to nerves. Thankfully, now as then, Caesar covers well.

"Uh-oh, I think someone has a slight case of the butterflies…. I asked: what do you like most about being in the Capitol?"

Katniss manages a passable answer about the food, specifically the lamb stew, which Caesar runs away with and turns into a bit about his nonexistent weight problems.

"Now, Katniss – that 11 though!" He makes a dramatic, shocked face out to the audience and we all hoot. "Quite a tour de force! Care to comment?"

Katniss actually manages a more natural smile this time and teasingly shakes her head. "Sorry, Caesar – my lips are sealed."

"Lips – I'm glad you brought that up, because it reminds me: do you have a special someone back at home?"

Katniss's face widens into the most brilliant smile I have seen from her all night, even as she shakes her head. And I have a feeling I know who she's thinking about, despite her denial. "Oh no, I… I don't have a boyfriend."

Caesar frowns in bemusement. "I mean, you can see why we don't believe you, though."

BAM! Just like that, I am in a forest at night, and Haymitch's Seam grey eyes are gazing down at me, accentuated all the more luminously by the light of the moon. _I mean, you can see why I don't believe you…_

A squeeze of my fingers jolts me back to reality, and I can just make out Cinna studying me quizzically in the dark. I silently wave him away. I'm fine.

"I have one more question for you… it's about your sister," Caesar is asking my goddaughter. "What did you tell her after you so bravely took her place at the Reaping? Play it back, folks, watch this closely – it's just… heartwarming."

A projector screen plays back Katniss volunteering for Prim. My goddaughter watches the whole thing with real, genuine tears in her eyes. The clip has barely finished playing before she is turning to Caesar and replying with naked, raw honesty, "I told her that I would try to win… that I would try to win for her."

Caesar smiles gravely. "And try you will." He kisses her hand, announces her as Katniss Everdeen the Girl on Fire, and the interview is over.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I've been holding and sink back into my plush seat. At my left, I feel Chaff's one good hand clap me on the shoulder. "She did outstanding," he murmurs low in my ear, and he's right: she really did.

Then Peeta is bounding onto the stage, pointing at people in the crowd and giving shout-outs. Caesar takes a liking to him right away.

"My, my, Peeta, how do you look familiar…? – Oh, yes, I remember! You look just like another District 12 tribute I know."

Peeta smirks knowingly. "I can't imagine which one, Caesar." Then, in the next instant, he picks me out in the crowd and gives a boyish wave. "Hi, Mom!" The audience roars with laughter. When the camera turns on me, I give a little wave back and blow him a kiss.

"Would you say you're a Mama's Boy, Peeta?"

"Oh, very much so, Caesar…." In the rows of seats at the back of the stage, Cato looks like he lets out a snort. Dickwad.

"What do you like most about the Capitol, Peeta?"

We drilled on this question for the better part of fifteen minutes, and Peeta answers it flawlessly. "You have interesting showers." This time, the déjà vu back to my own interview is more pleasurable. Caesar clearly recognizes this nostalgia for what it is, too, for he insists on the projection screen coming back to play me giving the same answer nearly 25 years ago. Thankfully, Peeta makes the moment his own by taking Caesar on a wild gag bit in which they spend the better part of five minutes sniffing each other's armpits. The audience eats it up.

"Now, Peeta, tell me: is there a special girl back home?"

Like Katniss before him, Peeta's face lights up while he tries to laugh the question off. "Nah, no there isn't…"

"I don't believe him for a second – look at that face! Peeta: tell me…" Caesar has taken on the tone of a big brother or lovable uncle who can keep a secret.

My son expertly plays along. "Well… there's this one girl I've been in love with forever. Our moms are quite close, but I don't think she knew I was even alive until several years ago, for our very first Reaping." The audience sighs piningly. Unrequited love they can relate to.

Then Peeta brightens. "I have given her a Reaping Kiss, though – several, actually…"

"Wait, a…. Reaping Kiss? What's a Reaping Kiss?" Caesar wants to know, eager to learn more.

"Aw, it's just an old District 12 superstition," Peeta waves off. "Legend has it that if you are eligible for the Reaping and share a kiss with someone on Reaping Morning, you either are guaranteed not to get picked or are granted good luck more generally. Frankly, we're still trying to figure out which one it is. My parents' very first kiss was a Reaping Kiss – true story!"

I find myself flushing at this. I don't remember telling him that; Danny must have, maybe even while he was saying goodbye to our son at the Justice Building.

"Did she kiss you back?" Caesar presses.

"Not at first…" Peeta blushes. "It took a little bit, but eventually, we made an annual tradition of it." Peeta is now sporting a truly stupid grin. Back in the tribute rows, I can see something profound start to dawn on Katniss's face.

"So let me get this straight: you've kissed this girl, she's kissed you back… I'm sorry, explain to me how you're still not together?" Caesar cracks. "Because let me tell you something, Peeta, if you go out there… and you _win_ this thing, then when you get home… she'll have to go out with you – right, folks?" Everyone roars in encouragement.

Peeta just chuckles, though it's tinged with sadness. "Thanks, but…. I don't think winning's gonna help me at all."

"And whyever not?"

"Because she came here with me."

Flawless response. The studio has gone deathly silent. Then the silence is broken by a few, agonized cries. Caesar looks genuinely remorseful. "Oh…. well, that's just bad luck."

"Yeah, it is," Peeta mumbles, glancing down at his leather saddle shoes. He looks to be one tick away from bursting into tears.

"Man, wouldn't you just love to get the lucky lady up here and get a response?" The crowd screams assent at Caesar's teasing. "Sadly, Katniss Everdeen's time has expired, but Peeta, we wish you both… the best of luck… in whatever time you both have."

"Thank you." Peeta shakes the studio executive's hand as some sappy, showtuney playoff music signals his exit from the stage. As Caesar closes the night, I seek out Katniss on the stage. She is blushing bright red, but it takes me a moment to realize it isn't from schoolgirl shyness or secret harboring of love.

She is red with _anger_.

* * *

I step onto the penthouse floor from the elevators into the middle of a shouting match.

Katniss has Peeta pushed up against the wall, but she isn't kissing him senseless this time. She looks ready to murder him before he's even entered the arena.

"Why the hell did you do that? You lie to me about the Reaping and now you have a crush on me?" She is flustered, lashing out like a caged animal. She doesn't know how to respond with anything other than defensive maneuvers. I always knew Katniss was pretty horrible at expressing her feelings or responding to emotion in a normal, healthy way, but this is just ridiculous!

I step in as calmly as I can and pull them apart, my heart breaking for my son at how devastated he looks. "Peeta did you a favor," I try to explain to my goddaughter.

"Favor? He made me look weak!" Katniss spits.

I eye her sadly. "He made you look _desirable_ ," I correct her. "It's nice to feel wanted. And now everyone in the Capitol wants you. You and he are all they're talking about – the Star-Crossed Lovers of District 12!"

My descriptions of my goddaughter as desirable makes Katniss take pause. She is flushing furiously now, spluttering, her rage waning into something adorable and awkward. "But… but I – he…. We're not…." If it were possible, she turns even further pink, her skin now practically the color of raspberry lemonade.

I smile at her softly, knowingly, even if she isn't quite yet ready to admit it to herself. "You both should get some sleep. It's a big, big day tomorrow!"

"Hey!" Effie gawks out a laugh. "That's _my_ line!"

Katniss turns into herself, still blushing bright red. Lifting her eyes to Peeta, lashes fluttering a little, she mumbles with embarrassment, "I'm sorry I attacked you."

Peeta gives her the most adoring smile. "It's fine. Frankly, I should have told you a lot sooner... and preferably not on live TV."

Katniss wrings her hands at this. "Yes, well…. goodnight," she squeaks, before turning, lifting up the skirts of her red dress, and pelting from the room.

* * *

A nightmare yanks me out of a deep sleep several hours later. Staggering into the penthouse kitchen to pour myself a glass of water, I am just turning to go back to bed when I see the door to the roof slightly ajar, golden light filtering in through the crack. The sound of voices, low and whispering. Curious, I follow the sound to the top of the stair landing, peeking out to see Katniss and Peeta seated quite close together and talking quietly.

"It doesn't matter, Katniss," Peeta is saying. "I've never been a contender in these Games anyway."

She frowns prissily, chiding him. "That's no way to be thinking."

"Why not? It's true. I just…. want to find a way to show them… that they don't own me. You know, if I really am going to die… I want to still be me."

Katniss glances down between them, deep in thought. "I know. I just…. I can't afford to think like that."

"So don't. You won't have to, Katniss. I'll make sure of that."

She looks at him – really _looks_ at him for a moment. Then, wordlessly, she cups his face in her hands, leans in and tentatively presses her lips to his.

The kiss is soft and chaste, but sweet. And I also can tell that, coming from Katniss, it is sincere, if also a little nervous. As though she and he haven't kissed each other before. Like this is something scary, thrilling and new. And for my goddaughter, maybe it is.

"For luck…." Katniss whispers when she and my son finally break apart.

I see Peeta beaming, and I quickly turn away to steal back to my rooms. My heart is hammering in my chest, and I find myself thinking back to all that Chaff told me, about what he is planning and what he wants me to go along with. If the Capitol didn't see Katniss and Peeta as one unit, unable to be torn apart, before, then after the interviews, they definitely do now.

But will that be enough? Will that be enough to shatter precedent, perhaps even to defy the decree of an ancient treaty and the will of a President that desires to see that only one Victor may be crowned? Will that be enough to ensure that, for once, true love really can conquer all? Will my son and my goddaughter get to have the chance that Haymitch and I were denied? Well, that _I_ was denied.

I slip into the worst slumber I have ever had since I was in the arena.


	28. Put Your Hands on Me

**Chapter 28: Put Your Hands on Me**

I am standing on the roof of the Training Center, dark bags under my eyes. Effie needed to wake me up to make sure I was ready on time this morning. The hovercraft's rotors are lazily spinning, and glancing into the belly of the plane, I can see that a handful of the other tributes – Cato among them – are already strapped into their seats. I don't want to release either of these kids into the Capitol's hands, to perhaps even sit next to the kid who could become their murderer.

Eyes swimming with tears, I wrap my youngest son in a tight hug. My voice cracks, and I don't care a bit, as I whisper out hoarsely, "I love you. I'm thankful every day that you're my son."

Peeta draws back, a weak smile of concern gracing his face. "Mom…? It's OK…." I can probably count on one hand the number of times he's seen me cry – his grandmama's (my mother's) funeral. The day Glen Everdeen died. I still can't find the effort to halt my tears. I could very well lose him – my baby – in less than an hour.

Then, I turn to Katniss, hugging her close too. Considering how Katniss freely gives her affection with only a select few people, I am quite honored that she hugs me back. "Always did want a daughter…" I murmur. "You're the closest one I've got."

Katniss leans back out of the hug, her own eyes glassy. She appears truly touched. I lay hands on both of my kids' shoulders. "When the gong goes off, both of you get out of there – _immediately_. Run, find water. The rest will follow after that."

They both nod, and I smile sadly. "Well… I'm afraid it's time." Turning them both to the plane, I have to work to get my hands to nudge them towards the thing, away from me, possibly forever. Sweet Panem, I hope the crazy plan that Chaff and I have concocted actually works! I wait until the hovercraft is but a speck in the sky, and I turn away.

I take the elevator all the way down to the street, and cross the busy thoroughfare and up one block to the Victors' Control Center. My hands are shaking so much, I doubt I would be able to competently hail a cab for the quick drive. Entering another elevator, I shoot up to the Mentors' Bar.

The bartender is dealing out drinks; Matthias Fletcher of District 5, who won on a bizarre technicality the year after Chaff (his final opponent went out in search of him, tripped and plummeted off a cliff) is already rooted to his usual stool and imbibing heavily. Nolan de Naro of 9 and Roan Tully of 10 are seated at one table, playing a game of cards and smoking. Nolan inhales a bit too much on quite the lazy drag and coughs.

"Careful, de Naro! That's fine Eleven tobacco!" Chaff admonishes his colleague as he approaches me to wrap me in a hug. Stepping out of the embrace, he gives me an easy smile and a little shake. "Relax, Maysie – they'll be all right. I've got it all worked out."

I smile weakly at him, even as I whimper, "Why don't I believe you?"

"You wound me," Chaff dramatically reels back, fake stung. "But really, I barely believe in myself, so you're not alone there." There's a raucous clamor of noise rearing up from where the Careers mentors are taking over their usual table and my friend takes the opportunity to lean in and whisper to me, "My contact on the inside is with us. He's enchanted by the Star-Crossed Lovers bit. He's going to use the arena to manipulate the public."

"And us?"

"We plant the seed with the media, but don't look like you're being intentional about it." As the natural white noise dies down, he leans back and flicks a loose strand of my blonde hair over my shoulder. "Got it?"

I nod, and head over to an empty table with him to turn on the mounted datapads. Check the gambling stats, the odds and most important of all, the gift prices. After a minute, Seeder joins us, stealing her arms around me. I lean into the touch like it's a lifeline and I hear the District 11 Victors murmuring low over my head:

"Looks like we got four kids we need to protect, Seeder, honey, not just two."

"Chaff Habarti, that soft heart of yours is going to get you in a lot of trouble someday. There can only be one Victor; you know that…" I have a feeling Seeder doesn't know about the plan – or maybe she does and is trying to act like she's in the dark.

"It's Maysie…" Chaff whimpers. "Seeder, this isn't like when other Victors have had their own babies go in – you and I have seen all of Peeta's baby pictures, for Snow's sake!"

Seeder exhales deeply. "What the hell is this, the Second Quarter Quell? Going through that shit once was enough!" My shaky laugh quickly turns into a sob, causing my friends to quickly stop their soft bickering.

I feel a looming shadow cast darkness over me and we all glance up to see Brutus's massive girth. Chaff glowers.

"Fuck outta here, Barsetti, and get back to your white apes!"

Brutus pouts. "What's with the hostility, Habarti? It's like my boy has killed yours already!"

Chaff barks out a dark laugh. "He won't."

I softly nudge Chaff away from me with a hesitant smile, and turn to face my old mentor. In the years we have worked together as mentors, he and I have been pitted against each other before. And in that time, District 2 has racked up four more wins to its name, two of those the result of Brutus coaching the eventual Victor personally. Whereas I have never had a single win. But something is clearly more charged about this year, as I have to watch my son and my goddaughter go up against a boy whom Brutus seems more excited about than he has about any tribute of his in years. Clearly, we both have a deeply personal interest in the outcome of these Games, and yet I have to remember the sportsmanship he and Ahenobarbus taught me: glory with honor.

"Hey: may the best tribute win." I reach out a hand.

Brutus turns away, cold. "He plans to." I lean back, blinking. As Brutus strides away to the Career tables (which are shaped like high-tech work tables that can be unclipped and wheeled around at will – particularly helpful when mentors have to glom together in an alliance), Chaff snorts.

"Fucking cunt. Cecelia must have rebuffed him again."

I swat at his bicep. "Language!"

He facetiously sneers at me. "Yes, Mama…"

A deafening swell of screams split the air and there is a mass rush of movement towards the front of the bar. From the curtained phone booths lining the far wall – that's where we go to telephone the families after their children die – Johanna Mason of District 7 stumbles out and races towards the group. Chaff chuckles.

"What, did Mason hide in there to make out with Finnick again?"

"She wouldn't do that – not when Annie's on mentoring duties this year!" It's not quite a guess on my part, so it is telling when Chaff concedes the point as though it is fact. He takes my arm and tries to lift me to my feet.

"Come on, honey…"

I fight to stay glued to my chair, suddenly paralyzed with fear. "No… I don't want to…"

"You have to, Maysie sweetie, it's the only way! Seeder and I will be right here with you…" Still, it takes both him and his old mentor to nearly carry me over to the bar, Chaff rudely yet adorably muscling people out of the way.

"Excuse us… pardon us… Eamon Sullivan, get the ever-loving _fuck_ out of my face and find somewhere else to sit – mother of a tribute coming through!" A barstool nearly overturns as Eamon Sullivan of 7 (Blight's old mentor) topples out of it.

"And godmother…" I say weakly, thinking of my Katniss.

Chaff nods, remembering. "And godmother of a tribute too, might I add!"

"And your boy is wanking to her, Maysilee?" Someone hollers out; my eyes can't track to follow the voice. "Isn't that like incest?"

"Sad he won't share, are ya, Delacroix?" Chaff shoots back. "And incest – that's a right laugh, cause you would know!" Everyone howls at the putdown, and both Gloss and Cashmere Delacroix look like they want to stick Chaff with blades.

My eyes gingerly lift to the flatscreen TVs mounted above the bar, just in time to see the seal of the Hunger Games fade away and the cameras go live from one of the tributes' perspective. With the first-person view, I can't tell who it might be that's now rising up in the tubes, before emerging to look out at…

A forest of greenery. Trees seem to line every side of this arena, with the exception of a wheatfield stretching off to the west. The Cornucopia is set in a massive clearing; this year, the hull of the structure a gunmetal grey … as grey as my goddaughter's eyes…

My vision sweeps frantically, scanning for my two charges. Where are you… _Where are you_?!

There she is! Katniss is placed directly opposite the mouth of the horn. About five pedestals down from her is my son. I watch them share a look, and Peeta gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head. I have no clue what it could mean. Centered between the two of them as well as three others, Cato gets down into a crouch, an insatiable bloodthirst and open excitement in his eyes. Scanning my colleagues, I find Brutus within arm's reach of me. Grinning viciously.

"Strike first… strike hard… no…. mercy…."

Wait – I've never heard _that_ one before –

The gong sounds.

And pretty much everyone, absent one or two people, runs for the stash of supplies.

Katniss sprints for something clearly in her line of vision about one hundred yards away, about two-thirds of the way to the horn. As she goes along, she snatches up a bright red-orange backpack without once breaking stride. Eyes gleaming, she reaches her target and snatches it up. My heart leaps with hope. A bow and quiver of arrows!

"Hey! That's mine!" My heart immediately reverses trajectory and stutters to a stop as Glimmer appears on screen, lunging for my goddaughter. Snarling, Katniss leaps back but Glimmer gets a hand on the bow and the two girls grapple for it. The Delacroix twins are leaping and hooting and hollering.

"Take the bitch out NOW, Glimmer!" Cashmere shrieks.

"Katniss, RUN!" I wail. A bow isn't worth it….

The field is rapidly congealing around the horn. But Katniss won't give up. Growling, she yanks the bow close, bringing Glimmer with her so that the blonde bombshell is off-balance. Katniss uses the motion to reverse quickly and now fling both opponent and object back.

Glimmer has no choice but to let go and she sails through the air…. connecting right with the metal hull of the Cornucopia. There is a sickening crack and she slides down the surface, blood pooling around her head. BOOM.

The Delacroix twins are both as stunned as Katniss now looks on the screen. Cashmere turns to me slowly, by degrees, her voice low and deadly as she shakes with blind rage. "What did your little bitch do….?!"

Meanwhile, Katniss quickly turns and flees, racing for the treeline. No one else gets into her path and tries to stop her, although Clove spots her and attempts to give chase. Her little legs have no hope of catching Katniss's long ones…

… But then Clove throws a knife with all her strength.

Katniss hears the air currents shifting and instinctively lifts the backpack across her shoulders up to cover her head. The knife impales itself into the fabric and Clove lets out a frustrated yell. I smirk at Enobaria's little tribute giving a weapon away.

Katniss has just reached the pedestals when she hears grunting and snarling and snaps her head to the left.

Cato has astonishingly made it not very far from where he started… and that's because my son has gotten in his way. The two boys are in a full-on fistfight, and I quickly deduce the reason: Cato must have made Katniss his primary objective, tried to weave left to cut her off before she reached the horn… and Peeta, anticipating this, must have moved to cut _him_ off instead. As I watch in horror, Cato knocks Peeta to the ground and looms over him, ready to stomp on his head, or worse, get him in a chokehold. _Peeta, come on, you know wrestling from your dad – do something_!

He doesn't. Katniss does something instead.

"NO!" Her cry is high-pitched and plaintive, and an arrow is in the notch quick as lightning. She fires, right for Cato's head and Brutus bellows out, "DODGE, boy!"

Cato does – barely in time. The arrow's tip still manages to graze a trail along his forehead though, and he howls with pain. Had he moved a second later, it would have gone in his temple and been a ridiculous upset.

Katniss loads another arrow and fires again at Cato, whose attention she now fully has. Gritting his teeth and growling, Cato has to run to avoid the second barrage, and Katniss lets it go, knowing it will fly wide. She drove him away. She made him run.

Katniss and Peeta lock eyes. Leaping to his feet, he pelts for her. Eyes wide and frightened, the pair lace hands and run away from the Cornucopia together. The second they disappear into the treeline, I collapse, sobbing with relief, in Chaff's arms.

"They're all right… They're all right…" Chaff whispers to me, before letting out an enthusiastic whoop, nearly in my ear. "Wonderful girl! Might have to get in line behind your son because I'm beginning to like her!"

"Cool down, Chaff," Seeder chides.

Through the tangle of Chaff's limbs, I watch the rest of the Bloodbath with some semblance of calm. Blood pouring down into his eyes, Cato nevertheless gets his hands on a broadsword and sets to work in a blind rage. When all goes quiet, he, Clove and Marvel are standing back-to-back-to-back in a triangular posse ring, scores of bodies lying in heaps around them.

Bartimaeus Pastier of 2's jaw drops. "Holy Panem, how many are dead?!"

The cannons answer him – sixteen in all. That leaves these three Careers, Katniss and Peeta, and three others out there somewhere in the woods.

On Seeder's left, Finnick knocks back a drink before turning to draw an already weeping and rocking Annie into his side. "Worst. Bloodbath. Ever."

Chaff, Seeder and I hobble back to our table, and the Career mentors scramble to give their trio whatever gifts they can. Not that they need them – they have the run of the Cornucopia now. The only other mentor to lunge for his datapad is a falling-down drunk Matthias Fletcher, and that's when I realize: one of his tributes is still alive – the sly girl is now onscreen running through the woods.

If Finnick thinks this was the worst bloodbath ever, Caesar is practically giddy as he insists that it's one of the best, if not _the_ best. Seeder is shaking her head sadly.

"I don't think I've ever seen a opening day kill count this high…"

I smile at her wanly. "My year had eighteen fall at the horn, nineteen by the time the sun went down. Don't you remember?"

"Well, yeah, but you had double the numbers. It's different…"

Caesar has now cut away from his commentary, back over to the three Careers – an unusually weak pack this year, he notes. With his only allies a ferocious, 5-foot-tall pixie and a half-retarded dolt, Cato easily assumes the role of Pack Leader. Crossing over to Glimmer's body, he kneels next to it.

"What happened here? Anyone see?" His voice is a growl.

Marvel raises his hand with the enthusiasm of a kindergartener. I am oddly reminded of poor old Beech Berryhill. Cato suppresses an eye-roll, pretending to choose between the only two other people standing in the clearing.

"Yes…. Marvel?"

"Stupid Glimmer got into a fight with the Twelve bitch over her bow. Got flung into the horn."

Cato swears and kicks at the dirt. "I should have _known_ that was her weapon of choice – that must be how she outclassed me in Training!" He paces like a tiger. "Our biggest opponent is now at-large, armed and dangerous… and she's with her squeeze-toy, the Mama's Boy of that Donner woman…" He throws out his hands at the carnage wrought around them. "This is a disaster!" he declares. "What a terrible bloodbath!"

Clove and Marvel look at each other, clearly not sharing his opinion, though both are also clearly wary of Katniss. Clove doesn't bring up how she almost stuck Katniss with a knife, perhaps fearing if she did, it might get Cato even more upset… and maybe result in deadly consequences.

"So…. what do we do?" Marvel voices stupidly.

Cato sneers ferally. "Look to the sky tonight to see who else lives. Then… we go hunting."

* * *

By the time darkness falls, the Mentors' Bar has largely emptied out. Only a handful of mentors, including me, still have a stake in these Games. The phone booths on the far wall were ringing off the hook all this afternoon, a steady stream of Victors stepping behind the curtains to make that call no one wants to make.

We are at the Final Eight on the first day – a record, Claudius Templesmith gushes. Camera crews are having to scramble to get down to Districts 1, 2, 5, 11 and 12. Of the eight tributes remaining, six are still within intact district pairs – Cato and Clove. Both of my friends' tributes, Thresh and Rue. And Peeta and Katniss. Marvel and the District 5 girl, Demelza, are the only ones who have lost their district partner.

Brutus, Enobaria Malachite and the Delacroix twins are huddled low over their one table, heatedly whispering. Towards the opposite end of the room, the three District 5 mentors – Matthias Fletcher, Emrys Avery and Circe Montoya (their only woman) – are going through the list of items and prices on their datapads. Demelza has no weapon that I can see; she and Rue are the only tributes who didn't even try to make The Run, which was probably smart of them. She doesn't look like a fighter, and seems to prefer sneaking around and foraging what she can.

The blue light of the datapad illuminates Chaff's face as he ganders through the list of prices. Not only is he searching for something to send to Thresh and Rue, but he has taken to keeping an eye out for Katniss and Peeta as well. I am just beginning to recover from the terror of this morning, my nerves no longer totally shot.

The knowledge that Thresh escaped to take shelter in the wheat fields at the far edge of the arena did little to improve Cato's overall mood. Even he seems leery of trying to go in after the imposing black boy, but the forest is even more intimidating. One could easily get lost in those trees. Rue has taken to making the upper canopies of these redwoods and birches her home. Demelza is skirting along the edge of the forest, ringing around in a circular pattern – if she goes much farther, she'll enter the wheatfields where Thresh is hiding.

"Why don't we just split off now?" Clove asks aloud, the boys turning to look at her.

"What? And no melee?" Marvel pouts. Gods, he really is thick. If he thinks he would come out of a melee on top, then I'm President Snow.

Clove shrugs. "Two of the survivors are practically mincemeat, and hell, Lover Boy, Mama's Boy or whatever we're calling him is too." My eyes narrow into slits, the mama bear in me hissing. "That only leaves Thresh and the Twelve Bitch – each one of us could take them on in individual combat."

Cato emphatically shakes his head. "No. We act as a unit and hunt until it's only us left. Then we melee."

Clove scowls, folding her arms. "Fine. So who's our first target?"

As much as he doesn't like the idea, Cato points into the wheatfields. "The Thresh kid turned us down. He has to pay for that. Let's go."

"Wait," Marvel calls. "Shouldn't someone stand guard?"

Cato glances back like he could care less, but says, "Since you've volunteered, Marvel, you can do it."

Marvel nods, standing a little straighter with his weapon of choice – a spear – at the ready.

Cato signals Clove with a jerk of his head. "Let's go." And District 2 disappears into the tall grasses.

Seeder looks to Chaff. "Shouldn't we send him something?"

"We can't warn them about the arena's dangers or incoming tributes, Seeder," Chaff frowns. "Besides, Thresh has a scythe, he took down three at the Bloodbath – he can handle himself against Cato."

" _And_ Clove with him?" Seeder presses, doubtful. He doesn't answer her.

Caesar now cuts away finally to my kids. Katniss and Peeta have come across a cave, and decided to take shelter in there for the night. They barely get in ahead of a driving thunderstorm.

"Can we light a fire?" my son shivers. I study the datapad to realize that the temperature is dropping dangerously low.

Katniss gropes and searches along the dank stone ground in the dark. "No flint, at least not that I can see." She studies the fabric of the jumpsuit across her shoulders. "These jackets have internal heating – as long as we keep them on, we should be safe." Though she doesn't sound confident.

The pair of them sit down, side by side, looking out at the sheet of water coming down ahead of them. There is a long and tense silence before Peeta gets out:

"Thank you. For saving my life."

Katniss turns to study him intensely. "Always," she breathes out. He lifts his eyes back to hers. The entire atmosphere, there and here in the Mentors' Bar is so tense, the air practically vibrates with it.

Finally, my goddaughter speaks: "Peeta?"

"Yeah?"

"…. When did you first fall in love with me? Um… why?"

Peeta smirks at her fondly. "I think I can answer both of those questions at once: it was the first day of school, remember? We were in assembly, and the Teacher asked who knew the Valley Song and your hand shot straight up! You sang it for the whole student body, and every single bird outside the window fell silent… It was the most beautiful thing I ever heard." His voice has softened to a mere whisper.

Katniss's eyes are huge and sparkling in the moonlight as another memory washes over her. "You and I met in the schoolyard…" she breathed. "Under your mom's statue… and you told me… you were going to marry me." Even though it's almost pitch-black dark, I know she is blushing beet red.

Peeta beams, surprised and pleased that she remembered. "Exactly."

What little lighting the camera crews can manage when getting an angle in on the kids captures a single tear blaze a path down Katniss's cheek. Then another falls. And another. She is weeping now, pursing her lips and shaking her head. A tiny whimper escapes her. For Katniss to _feel_ so acutely must be, at least for her personally, disastrous; for us watching in the audience, it is television _gold_.

"I don't know how I can love you the way that you love me," Katniss sobs. Peeta takes this to mean some kind of rejection, his face falling. Panicked, Katniss tries to better explain what she means. "No, I mean, it's just that… I'm not good at saying anything," she admits quietly. Taking a breath, she starts over.

"When… my daddy died… it destroyed my mother emotionally. She shut down… for a long time. Auntie Maysilee and your dad helped us out quite a lot, but for me, I saw how much in love my mother was with my father, and how losing him destroyed her. I promised myself that I would never fall in love with anyone the way she fell in love with him." She pauses, another tear slipping down her cheeks. "But then…"

"But then…?" Peeta prompts. We all lean forward eagerly.

Katniss doesn't meet the moment. But she does continue on to say, "I don't think I can love you the way that you _deserve_ , Peeta. I'm not exactly a lovable person to begin with, and I know how I don't open up to many people – for good reason. I'm… afraid of getting hurt."

This is absolutely extraordinary. Never, in her entire sixteen years of life, have I ever seen Katniss lay bare her soul this excruciatingly. And my wonderful son knows just how to handle it, smiling at her soothingly.

"I think I see the problem," he concludes at last. "You are so afraid of loving someone else and then losing that someone, that love, that you've convinced yourself you're _unworthy_ of love. You're wrong. You are trying to fight a feeling that can very much be irrational… with more irrationality." Katniss gawps at him, and fearing he has offended her, Peeta has to also more deeply clarify what he means. "That's not to say that what you're feeling isn't valid – it is. But you _should_ be loved, Katniss. _Everyone_ deserves to be _loved_ – you, most of all. You're more than worthy of being loved in return."

Katniss is gazing at Peeta as though she has never seen him before. Slowly, she reaches out and caresses his face. The tears are a waterfall now, like the one cascading over the entrance of the cave, created by the downpour of rain. My goddaughter chokes down a sob. "You're not lying – you really _do_ love me."

"I've always loved you, Katniss," Peeta gives her an absolutely smoldering smile. "You just weren't paying attention."

She laughs musically – a real, genuine laugh from her that sadly quickly dies out. "For all the good it does us now. We've just found each other, and at least one of us will have to die." She is doing that wringing of her hands that is a telltale sign that she is nervous, aided now by her one hand running through the braid in her hair, which is already starting to come loose. My goddaughter eyes Peeta askance. "If… if there was some way… we could be together…."

"But we can't…" Peeta bemoans.

"Let's just… pretend for a moment." She smiles weakly at him. "If we could leave this arena together… would… would you still want to have a Toasting?"

Claudius chooses this precise moment to interrupt my son's answer by cutting away from the coverage to ask what a Toasting is. Caesar and half of the studio audience yell at him to cut back, and he quickly does so, flustered by their enthusiasm.

Luckily, we didn't miss much, and Katniss is asking Peeta another question. If she was any redder, she probably _would_ be on fire. "… Would you want to have children?"

"Oh, definitely," Peeta chuckles, and his normally brilliant blue eyes have clouded over with desire. "Nothing would make me happier."

Katniss looks away, appearing guilty. She is running her fingers through the strands of her hair more intensely now, so that the braid really is starting to come loose from its bands. "I couldn't. Have children, I mean. Babies are something to love only for them to become something to lose at the Reaping. Besides… I'd be a horrible mother."

"Katniss," Peeta grins at her easily. "I know your mother struggled after your dad died. But if she made any mistakes in parenting, that doesn't mean _you_ would. Again, you think you don't have any love to give, but you _do_ – you have _plenty_ of love to give. And all you have to do is see what you did for Prim."

Claudius seizes on this thread to cut away from the broadcast again and replay Katniss volunteering at the Reaping. The audience's dramatic sighing quickly turns into impatient boos. They want to see more – more of the Star-Crossed Lovers! However, I have the most thrilling suspicion that they're booing more than just Claudius's poor splicing skills. Beside me, Chaff is grinning from ear-to-ear. He leans over to me and his breath ghosts my earlobe.

"Forget manipulating the media – these brilliant kids have done all the work for us!"

Claudius is even quicker to cut back to the broadcast this time and give the people what they are demanding. The feed cuts back in to find Peeta and Katniss making out rather ferociously. My goddaughter's hair is now free from its braid, the chestnut ringlets cascading down her back. To my astonishment, Katniss's fingers are groping down for the waistband of Peeta's trekky jeans. Peeta freezes against her, and breaking the kiss, Katniss does too. They gaze at each other with unmasked lust, which in Katniss's eyes is quickly mixed in with naked vulnerability and maybe a little bit of fear. Do they dare?

"Don't be afraid…" Peeta's voice is a hoarse croak.

"I'm not afraid," Katniss cuts across him sharply. She laces her fingers through Peeta's and guides his one palm to cup her breast. Her voice is breathless as she whispers:

"Put your hands on me, Peeta."

My son dives in to kiss her, and her tongue meets his eagerly. The audio is picking up Katniss moaning prettily as she lies back down on the cool stone, taking Peeta with her so that he moves to straddle her. Breathing becoming heavy and labored, she spreads her legs for him, opening her knees so that he can nestle there…

Seeder prudishly bristles. "They aren't seriously going to _show_ …?"

Suddenly, a white-plated Peacekeeper approaches our table. "Mr. Habarti, Ms. Crue, Ms. Donner, I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."

"Oh, come _on_!" Chaff roars. "We were just getting to the best part!"

" _Now_ , Mr. Habarti." Over at the Career table, I can see a similar officer speaking quietly to Brutus Barsetti and Enobaria Malachite. Enobaria nudges Brutus to go with the Peacekeeper, opting to stay behind. We quickly join Brutus by the doors, and are marched into the elevator to ride down to the street. The dinky elevator music seems downright funny compared to the gravity of the scene we've just left. Compared to the gravity of what we might be walking into. I feel myself start to sweat. Have we been found out? Are we being outmaneuvered? Chaff seems almost buoyant, so I am less inclined to think so, though the paranoia is still there. And if this really were about the rebel plot being found out, then why would Brutus be conscripted into tagging along? He's no rebel – he loves the Games. Still, I feel the need to ask my District 11 friends:

"What is this about?"

"They only asked for mentors who still have both their tributes alive," Seeder deduces. "So it must be something about that."

When we emerge from the Victor Control Center, the scene on the street is an absolute madhouse. To my shock, I quickly realize: it is a _protest_. People are protesting and chanting, "They both must live! They both must live!" The Peacekeepers trying to hold back the tide – a task they are normally able to do so effectively – actually appear frazzled.

Seeder stares, mouth agape. "A protest… in the Capitol itself." The very idea of it is madness. Unheard of.

Chaff is practically skipping down the sidewalk as if the Winter Festival has come early. Over the sheer din, I manage to hiss in his ear: "Stop acting so damn happy! You'll give the game away!" But my own heart is beginning to swell with hope. Is it possible…?

The officers hail a cab for us, and our quartet is ushered in. The ride the to Gamemakers' Headquarters is strangely quiet. The Hunger Games can make for some very strange bedfellows – such can be the nature of alliances – but Brutus and Chaff are making a concerted effort to not acknowledge each other. Thinking back to one of the first times I saw them together – the first time I _met_ Chaff, waking up in the hospital after leaving the arena – I have to wonder if they've had some falling out that completely escaped my notice. Both men won the Games only three years apart; they're peers. I put it out of my mind.

We stop in front of Headquarters and are spirited almost furtively into the building. Media and paparazzi have gotten wind of the four mentors being called in for some kind of meeting with Head Gamemaker Seneca Crane and his associate, Plutarch Heavensbee, and have obviously come to the conclusion that it must have something to do with the surviving tribute pairs.

"Seeder! Seeder! Over here!"

"Maysilee, is this about the protests over Katniss and Peeta?"

"Brutus, will two tributes actually be allowed to live?!"

"Preposterous!" Brutus snaps back at the reporter. "And you can quote me on that!"

"Chaff, care to comment?!"

We enter the building and are rushed into yet another elevator, which zooms us right up to the top floor. The Gamemaker Control Room. Guided down a path of catwalks, overlooking men and women in white lab coats studying a blue holographic schematic of the arena, I see that we are being directed to a fishbowl conference room. Two men – one with a fancily trimmed beard, the other a balding man with blonde hair – await us inside.

The Peacekeepers escort us in and close the doors behind us. The bearded man stands and smiles at us.

"Good evening, mentors. Congratulations on having both your tributes reach the Final Eight. I am Seneca Crane, Head Gamemaker, and this is my Deputy, Plutarch Heavensbee."

The balding man rises with a smile and actually moves to shake each of our hands in turn. His smile widens when he gets to me, his eyes blazing with excitement. I feel Chaff surreptitiously nudge me in the ribs, but I don't need his signal – I know I am looking into the eyes of his rebel friend, the one who has somehow managed to infiltrate the Gamemakers and ride almost all the way to the very top.

"I am so _honored_ to have you all here," Plutarch gushes, emphasizing the word 'honored' while looking at me. "In light of recent events, public opinion has swelled to such an unprecedented extent that we here at Gamemakers Headquarters are considering a monumental decision: a Rule Change, one that would allow two tributes to live if they are the last ones alive _and_ if they are from the same district."

I resist the urge to have my eyes bulge. We did it. Chaff's and my desperate gambit actually seems to have worked. A Rule Change in the Hunger Game is very, _very_ rare. I've never seen one as a mentor, mostly because outside of needing to stay on your pedestal for the first sixty seconds, there _are_ no rules. Really, a Rule Change is kind of like an amendment. Older Victors, like Mags and Bovina Martinez of District 10, have told me that Rule Changes were a lot more common in the early years of the Games, mostly amendments to refine the process – there can be no cannibalism, for example. A rabid boy from 6 by the name of Titus nearly became Victor one year by butchering and then eating his victims. The Capitol citizenry couldn't stomach it, so Titus was taken out before he could capture the Crown.

Seneca raises a hand, as if to calm Plutarch down. "It would just be for this year, and… in the interest of fairness, we have determined that the tributes from Districts 11 and 2 are also eligible to benefit from this rule change."

I can feel Brutus glowering at me, livid at Seneca all but saying, _This Rule Change is really to benefit Katniss and Peeta, but we don't want to look like we're biased so_ …. I can't imagine why he shouldn't be happy - Cato and Clove could still win this and thus walk out of the arena alive together, as much as I might not wish for that to happen.

"Before we announce it to the press and to the tributes in the arena, we want you all to agree to the proposal…" Seneca now glances around, as if realizing something. "Wait… where is Enobaria Malachite?"

"Previous engagement," Brutus rumbles. "She won't be joining us. She hopes you understand."

Seneca purses his lips. "I see. Well, then we'll just have to make do with you four. A simple majority of three will approve the proposal; no one may abstain. All in favor, say A…."

"Aye."

"Aye."

"Aye."

Chaff, Seeder and I all give our consent before Seneca has even finished giving us instructions. Brutus's jaw clenches as he stews. He is outnumbered, outflanked. He might not like the proposal, but he will have to go along.

"Mr. Barsetti?" Plutarch prompts. "We still need an answer from you."

Brutus grinds his teeth, once again glaring at me. I keep my expression passive. At last, he gets out:

"Nay."

Not that it will do any good. Plutarch said a majority was needed. He nods.

"Majority rules. We will announce the Change in the morning." He glances back to the TV mounted on the far wall, which is playing continuous Games coverage. I can see Caesar cutting to a rerun of a past Games. To my shock, I recognize it as my own - the X-rated version, which would show Haymitch making love to me in the forest grasses, as the footage now depicts. Then, another piece of old footage is aired, grainy. I don't recognize it, and the closed captioning from Caesar describes it as never-before-seen footage from the… 10th Games? I watch, astonished, as a girl in a yellow sundress embraces a boy from District 7 named Treech. The boy convulses, and the girl draws back regretfully, holding a rainbow rattler in her hand.

My jaw drops: it's _Lucy Gray Baird_.

I barely hear Seneca and Plutarch dismissing us. The latter stops Chaff and I, waiting until Brutus has stormed from the room.

"I'd like to talk to you two about some ideas I have for mentors'… increased involvement for next year. I think the Quell we have planned is something we'll _never_ forget." Chaff nods once, seeming to comprehend the vagaries in this innocuous statement. It takes me a moment to catch up, but when I do, I also nod.

As we leave with Seeder, my mind is spinning. If what I digested is correct, then Plutarch has even more audacious plans to strike against the Capitiol. The rebellion could very well be at hand.

But first…. We have to get two tributes out of the arena alive. That means that Marvel and Demelza, the only singletons left, will have to die. And as much as I love Chaff, as much as I still have a complicated sense of caring for Brutus, the two tributes left standing have to be Katniss and Peeta.

* * *

It is the wee hours of the morning when the four of us get back to the Mentors' Bar. Coverage on the flatscreens is currently resting on Cato and Clove, who are combing the wheatfields by the light of the full moon and jumping at every little thing that goes bump in the night. The studio laughtrack is going almost ceaselessly, and I fight the urge to chortle myself.

Then Caesar gleefully suggests we check on our Star-Crossed Lovers from District 12. The camera opens into darkness, panning through the gloom and dampness of the cave. The broadcast switches, splicing in from another angle.

All at once, a hand slaps onto the glass of the hidden camera lens, fingers curling against the surface before sliding away, leaving a dewey print behind.

The camera zooms out, then dips down. Katniss's hand has fallen to claw at the rippling shoulder blades of my son, as he thrusts in and out of her sopping wet pussy while making tender love to her. Peeta's lips tear out of the passionate kiss they have been sharing to dip into her neck, sucking at the pulse point just above her collarbone.

"Huhh….. Uhhhh…" Katniss's head lolls to one side to grant him better access, her back arching as she grips Peeta's buttocks in her fists and furiously humps against him, matching him thrust for thrust. "Oh, gods….. Yessss… Faster…. Faster….. Harder – HARDER!" Her breathy cries turn into a plaintive wail.

"Shit, Katniss…." Peeta moans, slamming into her harder.

"Oh, Peeta….. love me…. I want you to love me…. I want you to _fuck_ me…." she growls, spits out the last word like it's a curse.

Peeta rides her all the harder, and Katniss's moans turn into pretty squeaks. Finally, with a _squeal_ , she convulses as she rides out her orgasm. Peeta made her cum. Another weak slam, two, and Peeta shudders. He looks like he wants to pull out, but Katniss clamps her powerful thighs around his middle.

"You're not going anywhere," she snarls ferociously. "You're going to cum deep inside me. And you can stay there as long as you like." Her words finally take my son over the edge, and he ejaculates hard into her.

There is a long silence, the atmosphere steamy and the hot mist from their lovemaking dissipating. Katniss and Peeta kiss again softly, and he pulls out, rolling off and tucking her into him, spooning her.

My goddaughter seems dazed, her voice having now taken on a dreamy quality. "So…." she murmurs, lying in post-coital bliss. "That's what it's like."

"What is?" Peeta grins goofily as he dips a kiss into her shoulder.

The camera gets a close-up of Katniss cringing on the word she says next. "Sexxxxxx….."

Peeta bursts into laughter. "Gosh, you're pretty amazing to do it so passionately when you can't even talk about it…."

Katniss also giggles, snuggling against him. "I've heard plenty of Seam girls at school talking about what it's like, what they do at the Slag Heap. I never understood what all the fuss was about." Craning her head to gaze at him, she smiles shyly. "Now I do."

Peeta beams at her, and they kiss lightly. His body is shuddering again, like it was when he was coming deep inside his lover, except he's no longer inside her. And Katniss notices.

"What is it?" she croons, softly caressing his cheek. "Peeta… are you cold?" I scan the temperature stats frantically, and realize she may have landed on the right answer: the night has dropped to almost intolerable depths, and after all, they are both naked. The body heat they have accrued from having sex won't keep them warm forever, unless they get dressed again and quickly.

"Don't worry," Peeta pants. "I'll be all right," even as he shivers violently. He releases Katniss and turns away, dropping into the fetal position as he continues to shudder. Katniss gazes down at him in sheer panic, lost in love.

"No…. no, please!" She wraps him in her arms again, presses herself against him in the hopes that their collective body heat might keep them both warm. "Please don't leave me…. please…." Katniss is full-on crying again, and then she says the three little words that I never thought I would hear her say to my son:

" _I love you_."


	29. An Act of War

**Chapter 29: An Act of War**

During the night, the interviews with the eight tribute's families are aired live. For a production that had to scramble together in record time, it is a fairly decent program that keeps us mentors awake during the midnight hours.

Also during the night, Katniss convinces Peeta that they need to get dressed to keep out the chill. My kids both quickly redress, each of them a little pink in the face as the full weight of the intimacy they have shared seems to finally catch up with them. The pair of young lovers hold each other throughout the bitterly cold night.

As for the rest of the surviving tributes, they seem to be having a rougher time of it. Rue has managed to anchor herself to the trunk of one tree, but she has just about as little keeping her warm as my kids do. She shudders just as violently as the leaves all around her that conceal her from view; I fear that such a tiny thing will be taken quickly, due to hypothermia. Further west, Demelza, the girl from 5, is starting to show signs of not only hypothermia, but also dehydration and starvation. She has yet to find a water source, just as none of the other kids have been able to, and the lack of liquid is starting to get to her brain. She is beginning to panic, doubling back away from the edges of the wheatfield containing Thresh and the Careers and wandering around the woods in close to lazy, meandering circles.

As for Cato and Clove, they have little choice but to start a fire and light it. Cato even suggests starting a controlled burn, hoping that they can smoke Thresh out sooner rather than later, and draw him into battle.

At sunrise, Claudius Templesmith's voice rings throughout the arena: "Attention, tributes, attention: there has been a slight… rule change. Two tributes will be allowed to live if both originate from the _same_ district and _both_ are the last two alive. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

Clove seems shocked, but Cato is rabidly excited, almost insanely so. With their bonfire roaring, he gets Clove to dance with him around and around the blaze; the whole scene is reminiscent of some pagan sacrifice.

Marvel chooses to respond to the announcement by…. _leaving his guard post_ and venturing into the woods to hunt for other tributes. The commentators are chomping at the bit, figuring that he wants there to be only one Victor – him – and therefore, he is going to break the district pairs, one by one. He'll need all the luck he can get to take out either of my kids, but I sill silently implore with Katniss and Peeta to wake up whenever images of them appear onscreen.

Unfortunately, Marvel encounters what many perceive as the easiest target first.

A piercing scream shatters the peaceful, early morning mist, rousing my goddaughter from a romantic slumber in my son's arms. Stirring, she gets up, ears cocked and listening. She reaches for her bow.

There it is again:

"HELP ME!"

Peeta grunts halfway awake at the sound, squirming when he doesn't feel the warmth of his lover beside him. "Katniss…. Katniss…." His tone, still sleepy, is beginning to pitch in sheer panic, though his eyes don't open all the way. He must still be somewhere in the midst of a nightmare… and the real-life screams are feeding it. He thinks they are _Katniss's_ screams.

"Sssssh…" Katniss croons, bending over him and kissing his lips sweetly. "I'm going to go check it out, my darling. I won't be long." And she strikes out from the cave, tracking the cries. When the scream next appears – it sounds as though it belongs to…. a little girl. Katniss breaks into a run.

I sit up sharply, and lunge for my datapad, scrolling and swiping madly through the items and prices. But all the costs are too high; the early forcing of the Final Eight has caused everything to spike into the stratosphere. I couldn't even get Katniss a cracker with the funds I have, let alone a weapon.

As my goddaughter continues to track Rue, I start yelling at the TV, rudely awakening the District 5 mentors. "No, Katniss, don't! It's a trick!"

Bursting into a clearing, Katniss stops dead when she sees little Rue tangled up in a net. Her big sister instincts win out as she thinks of Prim, and she rushes forward to free the little tribute. Rue doesn't even have the foresight to shy away first, leaping into Katniss's arms trustingly and crying.

"Ssssh….. You're OK…."

Draped over Katniss's shoulder, Rue is all that saves her, suddenly shoving her hard. "LOOK OUT!"

The two girls separate, Katniss falling back as a spear goes sailing through the air and catches Rue in the stomach. Spinning on her knees, an arrow almost magically appears and bullets right into Marvel's chest. The District 1 boy staggers back almost in disbelief, glancing down at the arrow in his gut before keeling backward, dead.

Finnick Odair walks in at that moment, just in time to witness Caesar's instant replay of the whole rumble. He grins gleefully.

"Ohhhhhhhh, you done just got _used_ , son!" The District 4 playboy struts over to the Careers' table, trolling an apoplectic Gloss Delacroix.

Meanwhile, Katniss is diving for Rue, catching her as she falls and cradling the sweet little girl in her arms. I am moved to see that my goddaughter is crying again.

"You're OK… You're OK…."

Rue is shuddering even more violently than she was last night… and not from the cold, I realize, for the sun is already burning the air's chill away. It is her body that is chilling. She is going; she can't be saved. "I don't wanna die…. I don't wanna die…."

Beside me, Seeder has a hand to her mouth, ugly, wracking sobs fighting to blast free into the space. Chaff is digging his nails through his scalp.

Katniss's tears are falling onto Rue's upturned face like sweet rain. "Don't think of it like that. Think of just… going to sleep." Goosebumps alight my skin at the euphemism. These Games are truly dark indeed – darker than most others I've mentored for.

And then, to my and everyone else's amazement… Katniss begins to sing.

" _Deep in the meadow… under the willow…._ "

As she sings and Rue languishes, Katniss sets about picking every single flower within reach and adorning Rue's body with them. An act of greater compassion I have never seen in the arena. The Capitol clearly hasn't witnessed such a sight, either, for the camera now monkey-wobbles dangerously, like it desperately wants to cut away, but seems unable to find a good enough excuse for doing so. They finally settle on cutting away to Caesar Flickerman, but both he and Claudius are gaping like fish and seem woefully unequipped to even spin what they are witnessing.

Chaff's eyes gleam, even through his tears. " _Squirm_ , fuckers…" he hisses so that only I can hear.

Seeder tssks, almost regretting the shitshow we are watching. "Worse than Fox News…" she mumbles. When I look at her quizzically, she just smiles. "Oh, it's an old saying."

The coverage returns to Katniss tentatively, as if to check, _Hey, are you done yet?_ A split-second later, they cut away again back to Caesar (who is still making weird choking sounds like a fish) but too late: all of Panem saw, just for the briefest of moments, Rue buried in flowers. A perfect shroud. Katniss kisses three of her fingers and raises them to the sky. This prompts the coverage to steal away so that she's out-of-frame, which is almost certainly intentional, but I can still hear her. Sobbing.

BOOM. BOOM. The two cannons sound belatedly for the two tributes, and miles away in the wheatfields, Cato and Clove hear them.

Cato frowns. "What the hell was that?"

"Hopefully District 12," Clove almost pleads with the sky. I smirk deliciously, unable to wait to see the look on her face when the dead appear in the sky tonight.

The Careers are standing there, nurturing the controlled burn Cato set. All at once, there is a rustling in the high grasses.

Clove jumps at the noise so much, she catapults herself into Cato's arms. He grimaces and promptly drops her. The laughtrack echoes. "What was that?" Clove squeaks.

Silence now, broken only by another rustling. Cato is reaching for his sword when –

Thresh appears out of nowhere and bullrushes them both. Still not in a fighting stance, Cato is nearly felled right then and there, and only some quick fists save him long enough to get his blade up. Thresh roars and brings down his scythe hard on Cato's broadsword. Chaff leaps to his feet, overturning his chair, fists clenched.

"Yeah! Get him, boy!"

Whipping out some knives, Clove attempts to circle around the perimeter of the duel, hoping to outflank Thresh as she waits for an opening. When she thinks she has one, she lunges forward and sinks a knife into Thresh's calf.

The petite District 2 girl then tries to dart back out, playing a cat and mouse game. Unfortunately, Thresh moves faster.

CRACK.

He brings down the hilt of his scythe onto Clove's skull, which cracks open like a melon. Eyes rolling back, Clove doesn't even have time to know what hit her before she is crumpling, dead. Off to our left, Enobaria curses loudly.

The death of his district partner prompts Cato to unleash his fury. "That's it," he presses on a bold offensive. "You're dead." He and Thresh duel back and forth; all the while, fire and smoke swirl around them. Both of the boys try to put their shirtsleeves up and cough into those, and I wince. Smoke asphyxiation might take them sooner than either of their blades will. Panem above, this really could come down to my kids and a jumpy girl from District 5. Should that happen, District 12 as good as has a Victor.

But then Thresh makes a mistake.

Knocking back an overhead strike, Cato thrusts out and stabs Thresh clean through the stomach.

"NOOOOOOOO!" Chaff bellows. A dazed Thresh falls to his knees. Growling, Cato manages to lift the massive boy up and hurl him into the flames of the wheatfield fire to finish him off.

For the second time today, two cannons sound off together. BOOM. BOOM.

The field has been halved and it isn't even lunchtime. The phones and datapads at the Career table begin to light up, a thrilled Brutus diving for one.

As we watch, Cato dramatically outruns his own controlled burn that has now spiraled decidedly _out_ -of-control, and dives from the wheatfields and back into the Cornucopia clearing. Hacking and wheezing from the smoke, the last Career collapses. I desperately check his vital signs on my datapad, praying… but they are all still OK. Cato is unconscious, but safe… for now.

The Games haven't even been going on for 24 hours, and already there are only four left.

I see Chaff turning sadly for the phone booths, and I squeeze his hand. "Are you OK?"

He nods, irises glistening. He grips my hand firmly in return. "I promise you, I will do whatever I can to make sure Katniss and Peeta win." I note how he says _and_ , not _or_ , and I realize that Katniss and Peeta are now the only district pair left who could still benefit from the Rule Change.

The coverage slows down to show Katniss arriving back at the cave. A now-awake Peeta lunges at Katniss and kisses her deeply in relief. Katniss squirms a little, trying to get words out around Peeta's plundering tongue, but soon gives in, melting into the kiss and returning it with fervor.

"I thought…. I thought…." Peeta weeps.

"Ssssh….." Katniss lightly rests a finger on his lips. "I'm fine."

My son gives my goddaughter a little shake. "What the hell happened?"

"Marvel speared Rue, the little girl from 11. I had to shoot him in retaliation," Katniss explains. "I don't know who the other two might have been."

Peeta hisses through a clenched underbite. "Let's hope that one of them was Cato."

Caesar takes this opportunity to cut back to the empty clearing, where Cato is just beginning to come to. Crawling over to the supplies, his eyes widen when he realizes the horn is deserted. Marvel is _gone_. Snarling in frustration, Cato begins to pillage through the pile of weapons and supplies now left all to himself.

It isn't even high noon yet. My kids decide to cautiously venture out of their cave and go hunting. There are only two other people they could possibly encounter now, only one of whom is even in the same vicinity as they are.

Katniss takes the lead with her bow and arrows. Peeta follows behind, armed only with the knife Clove threw at Katniss yesterday. The camera sticks on my kids closely, and then sweeps back on a wide shot over the whole forested landscape, so that we can clearly detect some rustling in the trees. A flash of ginger hair.

My heart leaps into my throat. Demelza is _following_ them. Tailing my son and goddaughter in the hopes of doing… what? Getting the drop on them both? I've seen Katniss able to bring down even a moving target with ease and Peeta could pin a small thing like Demelza in his sleep. Besides, Demelza has no weapon, is severely dehydrated and hungry. No, she shouldn't be looking for a fight… and maybe she isn't. Maybe she is hoping my kids will lead her to a source of sustenance, and then swipe what she can. It's the best she can hope for for now – unless something truly bizarre happens, Demelza has no chance of becoming Victor. If she manages to outlast even one more tribute and therefore place with a medal, it'll be a miracle.

Katniss and Peeta stop by a thicket. "I thought I heard something in that direction," Katniss points. She is actually incorrectly tracking the sound she doesn't know is Demelza, hunting them or whatever she's doing.

"OK, well I'll take the bow." Peeta offers. When she blinks and even jumps back for a moment, my son chuckles. "I'm kidding. I'll go scavenge some berries." He turns away too soon to see Katniss's lips upturning into a small, goofy, in-love smile and she paces off to hunt.

My goddaughter hasn't gone too far when a cannon blast suddenly pierces the late morning. BOOM. She goes ashen. "Peeta…."

And she is pelting through the woods, back the way she came, until….

She yelps as she crashes headlong into a body. A very much alive Peeta grabs her, searches her face.

"You've got to stop doing this…" he chuckles weakly. "Save some for the rest of us…"

"I didn't make the kill…" Katniss warbles, still half in a panic. Then she notices the clump of berries in Peeta's hand and angrily bats them away. "That's nightlock, Peeta! You'd be dead in a minute!" She devolves into tears. "You scared me to death… damn you…" And they hug.

"I'm sorry…. I'm sorry…" Peeta croons, holding her. "But… then who...?"

They quickly come to an answer. Not fifty paces away from where they've been standing, Demelza's body is found… her cold lips stained with berry juice.

"I didn't know she was following us," Peeta says sadly.

Katniss comfortingly pecks him on the cheek. "You outfoxed her, Peeta. That's all." She stands, stringing her bow again. "So it's just down to us and…"

"Cato," Peeta doesn't even have to think about it. "I'd bet sesterces on it."

Katniss smirks. "Or eating your dad's hat. Oh, wait… didn't you _already_ have to do that? I've been meaning to ask you what Capitol leather tastes like."

Peeta blinks, then chuckles at her teasing. "No, actually. Dad offered, though, when he visited me in the Justice Building."

Katniss laughs musically. Her mirth soon fades though as she falls into deep thought. "We've been dropping like flies… Why not just end this? I say we find Cato before he finds us." Pointing at something in the grass, she directs Peeta to gather up a clump of berries Demelza must have dropped. She puts them in her pocket. "If they could fool her, maybe they can fool Cato as well. Then it's game over…"

"… and hello District 12."

Katniss is probably right to want to put an end to this: according to Capitol news reports, the popularity of these Games is in danger of going underwater. Audiences have loved the propulsive action… but think it is happening too fast. For me, the Games can't end soon enough. I am so close to having my kids back. Both are already assured to place with medals…. and all they've really done so far is wipe out District 1, accidentally kill a third tribute, hunt, eat and sleep together (both innocently and not).

"Cato will probably be at the Cornucopia. He's not going to go any place he doesn't know," Peeta concludes as they set off in the direction of the horn. He is not entirely right about that assessment – Cato braved the wheatfields only to barely get out alive. A splitscreen now shows him loading up on weapons, though he's staggering, like he's dizzy and disoriented. He hasn't fully recovered from his duel with Thresh or escaping the flames, and I suddenly will my kids to get there all the faster. If they can catch Cato while he's still off-balance…

My kids hit the edge of the treeline and they see Cato, his back to them. Peeta turns to Katniss, blue eyes smoldering.

"I love you."

She gazes solemnly back at him. "I know." Eyes lidded, she loops an arm about his neck and kisses him deeply. Peeta eagerly kisses her back and she _groans_ a little.

The sound is an almost fatal error.

Even from yards away, Cato hears something and wheels around. Katniss and Peeta snap apart, their arms still around each other. I throw up my hands in frustration. Welp, the element of surprise is gone.

None of the three move for a long moment, staring each other down. Cato finally jeers.

"I should have known it would be you lovebirds. The Crown is as good as mine! Let's start with you first, Lover Boy. Your mommy can watch you die…."

Katniss notches an arrow faster than you can say nightlock. "You will _die_ before you touch him!" she growls fiercely.

I am immensely satisfied to see how this makes Cato take pause. He reaches up a finger to brush along the slice of dried blood from Katniss's wound at the start of the Games. Should he live, it will no doubt leave a scar.

Peeta steps forward, gallantly nudging his sweetheart aside. "Step aside, honey. I'll protect you."

"Peeta, don't….!" Katniss and I speak almost as one as Peeta bullrushes the final Career. The two, large and strong boys collide and begin to wrestle on the ground.

Arrow poised, Katniss moves in, circling the two men like a hawk and waiting for an opening. As she watches Cato and Peeta wrestle to kill for longer and longer, she actually rolls her eyes. "Well…" she mutters. "It's nice to know chivalry isn't dead."

The Games finale I am at witnessing is both at once gripping and surreal. I am squeezing Seeder and Chaff's hands like they are lifelines. Brutus is at the bar, jumping up and down and yelling at Cato to "FINISH HIM!"

Cato closes in for the kill. I can't watch….!

But then Peeta flips Cato and pins him against his body, rippling bicep around the other boy's throat in a chokehold so that they are facing Katniss.

He barely has to smile at her to do the honors, Cato barely has time for his eyes to widen in sheer disbelief before the arrows is in his temple. For good measure, Peeta snaps his neck.

BOOM.

Peeta gets to his feet, he and Katniss gazing at each other. Then, with twin, strangled gasps, they both rush into each other's arms, embrace and kiss wildly.

The Victors in the Mentor's Bar are cheering. I am sagging against my friends, overcome with relief. They did it. They won. Both of my babies are coming home….

My vision is hazy, so I barely clue in to how Brutus has gone deathly still over at the Bar. Then he turns slowly, by degrees, cobalt eyes finding mine like a heat-seeking missile and he actually charges me.

Several men – Finnick Odair, Nolan de Naro and Roan Tully – intercept my old mentor; it takes all three of them to hold him back.

"You…. you _bitch_!" Brutus screams. "He cheated!"

It takes me a moment to realize he is only referring to my son. Brutus said _he_ cheated, not _they_ cheated. I gaze at him sadly. "They did nothing of the kind," I state. I could twist the knife in, but refrain. I'm a better person than that. If Brutus wants to act like a sore loser, let him…, which is ironic, coming from him. "What happened to glory and honor, huh? What happened to _that_ Brutus?"

"There was no honor in that!" Brutus bellows, trying to get around Roan Tully's forearm. "Pinning an incredible soldier like that as though he was an animal!"

"It's called tag-teaming, Brutus," Chaff growls, stealing a protective arm around me. "Now stop acting like a big baby!"

"Fuck you, you nig-"

"WE'VE HEARD ENOUGH!" Seeder bellows before Brutus can drop what was undoubtedly a racial slur. "Sit your ass down, and don't open your filthy mouth again!" Finnick and his friends have to lead Brutus away.

My emotions finally get the better of me, and I break down in sobs, Chaff awkwardly rubbing my back. I'm just waiting for the trumpets to sound at this point, except they aren't. Why aren't they…?

I feel Chaff freeze against me. "Maysie," he rumbles, shaking me out from his chest so I can look at the screens.

"…. The previous Rule Change has been… revoked. Only one Victor may be crowned. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

Seeder curses. "Those _beasts_. They played us!"

Chaff's jaw is clenched so tight, he looks in danger of pulling a muscle. " _Now_ who has no honor?"

Onscreen, Katniss and Peeta are staring at each, crestfallen. My son deliberately takes the knife out of his pocket… and drops it in the dirt.

Her bow halfway raised, Katniss blinks and lowers it again, ashamed.

"No. Do it," Peeta goads her gently.

"I…. I can't – I WON'T!" Katniss screams, partially at him and partially to the heavens. The tears are back, streaming now. "We… we were going to get married. Maybe… maybe even have kids…"

Peeta perks up at this. "Then you would have allowed it?"

Katniss lets out a watery laugh. "In probably fifteen years." The laughtrack goes up, but it's strained and awkward. Around me, most of the other Victors are weeping. This is the finale the Capitol wanted – two lovers torn apart forever. And, like fools, Katniss, Peeta and all the rest of us delivered _exactly_ what the Capitol wanted, what they've always wanted: a show.

Katniss gazes at Peeta again. "I can't do it," she croaks. "I…. I love you!" Her voice comes out in a fierce whisper.

Peeta sadly smiles. "I know, baby. But one of us has to die. They have to have their Victor."

Katniss freezes quite unexpectedly, weighing this. "Do they?" she gets out. Then she answers her own question with an emphatic shake of her head. "No. They don't." And she throws down the bow. "Why should they?" And she sounds so heartbroken, that the Victors look at each other. What does she mean…?

The screen shows Katniss reaching for the berries in her pocket. Shows her pouring part of the clump into Peeta's hands. He tries to open his fingers, drop them into the dirt, when he realizes.

"Trust me…" she coos. "Trust me."

My son does. Each with a clump of berries, their eyes lift to each other. "Together?" Peeta asks.

Katniss nods solemnly. "Together."

Seeder's jaw drops. "They aren't…" she whispers, like she's in prayer.

But they are.

"Count of three?"

In response, Peeta smiles, dips his head and kisses Katniss's lips quickly. "The count of three."

"One…"

"Two…."

"Three." They echo together, lifting the berries to their mouths.

"Stop!... STOP!" Claudius's voice reverberates through the clearing, sounding feeble, panicked and desperate. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the winners of the 74th Annual Hunger Games."

Katniss and Peeta drop the berries, embrace and kiss.

Bedlam in the Mentors' Bar. Chaff is jumping up and down on the spot. His one good hand is twitching, like he is barely restraining himself from flipping middle fingers left and right at the television screens. "I fucking LOVE this chick!" he bellows, pointing at Katniss's picture on the screen, sounding raving drunk.

Amidst the chaos, amidst my happy weeping (we did it. We really pulled it off, and in less than 36 hours! I see Caesar's closed captioning declaring this the shortest Hunger Games in history), Seeder is the only one to remain calm.

"What's wrong?" I look at her.

She shakes her head gravely. "Snow won't be happy about this." She stares at me grimly. "This is more than just love, Maysie. It's more than just a clump of berries. This is an act of war."


	30. Eight Months Later

**Chapter 30: Eight Months Later**

I step out into the late afternoon sunshine, breathing deeply in and feeling the cool air of springtime fill my nostrils. Not even after I came home from my own Games did I ever think it could feel this good to be alive.

"Danny? I'm going for a walk, baby! I won't be long!" Blowing my husband a kiss, I almost skip down the stoop of our mansion, and head towards the entrance of the Village. Passing by an open window, the smell of cheese buns replaces the cool air and I inhale, sighing again. Turning, I wave to my youngest son; smiling, he cheerily waves back.

It seemed a little redundant to place Peeta in his own mansion, when he has been living with Danny and me in our mansion since the day he was born. The moment we stepped off the train, Danny had grabbed our son and sobbed openly into his shoulder. Then I was in his arms, and he was kissing me rather indecently, and I was kissing him back, to wolf-whistles and cheers. Though my drooped lashes, I had seen Katniss and Peeta watching the display with shocked amusement. I can't recall a time in our marriage when Danny and I have ever been less discreet, but I was too happy to care. Bringing a Victor – two of them! - home alive from the Hunger Games was something to celebrate, and did Dannel and I ever celebrate. I've never had such wonderful sex in my whole life; we made love to each other all that first night the kids were back.

The Peacekeepers had set to work almost immediately. Moving Peeta was simply a matter of taking all his stuff in his bedroom and then transferring it over to the mansion directly across the street from ours. The Everdeens' were harder; everything they owned was put into a wagon and carted up the hill to the mansion right next door to Peeta's. The imagery is striking – seeing my son and my goddaughter come out onto their adjacent front stoops, smile at each other and kiss. Through the Everdeens' open window, I see Belle doing laundry and actually humming to herself, looking the healthiest and happiest she has been in years. I wave to my best friend, but she doesn't see me – no matter.

I head down the hill, stroll through the Seam and cross into Town. As I near the schoolyard, I hear bells ringing; classes must be letting out. Upon returning home from the Games, now richer than many Merchants, Katniss and Peeta decided not to finish their education. They've been too busy slowly exploring their new romantic relationship, kissing and cuddling and touching. On some nights, I've thought that I've heard moaning coming from Katniss's bedroom window, indicating she and my son are secretly making love. The occasional hickey I've seen blooming on my goddaughter's neck has softly confirmed this. I am uncertain as to how I feel about it, but I eventually decide that as long as they are careful and use protection, they're fine. Dannel has been more than amused by my son and our goddaughter's blossoming romance, at one point asking me, "Were we ever like that, when we were their age?"

"First of all, we weren't even together at their age," I quip. "Second of all, no – we were worse." From the looks I've seen from her whenever she has walked in on Katniss and Peeta kissing, I can tell Belle doesn't approve of her eldest being so romantically involved so young. It might be a little hypocritical of her, but she doesn't openly voice whatever objections she might have.

I am entering the schoolyard now, in time to see kids streaming out of the building. Through the sea of faces, I spy my goddaughter, perched on the marble base of the fifteen-foot high statue of herself that now looms over the schoolyard. Her likeness has an arrow in the notch, poised to shoot, her snarl fierce. The statue to her left shows my youngest son in a defensive crouch, knife in hand, his other palm clenched into a fist.

I was pleased when both the statues were revealed at the unveiling last fall. Both of my charges look a damn sight nicer cut from stone than I do.

Ahead of me, I now see a group of boys laughing and congregating around Katniss on her statue – she must be waiting to walk Primrose home from school. I recognize one of the boys as Thom Borden, son of the new district mining foreman.

"There she is! The beauty of Twelve, Katniss Everdeen!"

"How's about a kiss, Miss Everdeen?" Thom entices.

Katniss squirms a little at the praise, flushing and stammering. "No… no, thank you. I'm waiting for my sister."

"Be a sport, just one kiss? You dish 'em out to Mellark often enough."

Frowning in bemusement, I stride forward. The laughter of the boys' ceases when they see me coming, and they clear out.

Katniss smiles at me weakly, grateful. "Thanks, Auntie Maysilee."

"No problem," I grin. Primrose comes pelting into her sister's arms two minutes later; swinging her around happily, I walk the Everdeen girls home.

Primrose skips ahead of us, leaving me and my goddaughter to trail behind. "I don't understand…. Why are all these boys flirting with me? They never did before. And anyway, they know I'm with Peeta."

I smile softly. "Maybe some of them have just noticed you, now that you're a Victor."

Katniss scowls adorably. "I don't want to be noticed." She breathes deeply and tilts her chin high, resolute. "The only person I want is Peeta."

"You must have had crushes on other boys before my son, though," I can't resist teasing. "Like, oh…. the Hawthorne boy!"

"Gale?" Katniss wrinkles her nose. "I hardly know him. We're only acquaintances because our daddies died in the same mine collapse." A brief pause, and then her lips upturn into a smirk. "Prim has a crush on his little brother, though. Rory. She won't admit it, but I know."

We're hiking up the hill now; Primrose has gone so far ahead, she's already disappeared through the gate.

Katniss lets me off at my mansion. "Thanks for the walk, Auntie! Bye!"

"Bye, sweetie," I beam, stepping into my foyer. I cross to the kitchen for a glass of water, stealing a drive-by kiss from my husband where he is working at the stove. It's a lazy Sunday, so the bakery is closed, but that doesn't mean we Mellarks ever stop baking.

I take a seat at the kitchen table, reaching for the remote that Rye decided not to leave in its proper place in the living room again, and turn on the TV from there. Caesar is on the screen, bubbling about next summer's Games.

"Yes, this year will be the 3rd Quarter Quell, and all eyes will be on District 12, of all places – their own Maysilee Donner won the Crown twenty-five years ago, and of course, last year… the greatest love story of our time. For the last eight months, we have exulted in their happiness… though we are also quite upset that the President has refused to let us marry Katniss and Peeta the way they deserve to be!" Caesar actually wipes a tear from his eye.

That decision, last fall, was actually a little odd, even for President Snow. Still in a tizzy over the Star-Crossed Lovers, Caesar and half the Capitol had wanted to throw my kids a lavish wedding. Guest lists were drawn up, and Cinna had even been commissioned to mock up a few wedding gown designs for the bride (it would have been a boon for his career), until Snow intervened, issuing a press release stating that Katniss and Peeta would not be married until they came "of age." Peeta hadn't seemed bothered by it; Katniss was openly relieved. My son and my goddaughter apparently talked about it and both agreed they aren't ready to get married. They just want to date, for now.

Caesar has now moved on to the next exciting bit of gossip: "I am receiving reports that the Reading of the Card to announce the Quell twist might even be handed down tonight! What will the twist be, folks? We're dying to know."

I knock back my water, wishing it is something stronger, like bourbon. I don't drink (the last time I imbibed was the champagne at Danny's and my wedding), but the temptation to do so now is greater than it's ever been. When I was sixteen, the Reading of the Card was announced in early March. I am already dreading the added attention that will befall me, and only me – the news of Cora Shutter's passing around the time of the Winter Festival shocked the nation. Snow had ordered flags lowered to half-staff; and a state funeral was held for the Victor of the First Quarter Quell in front of the District 8 Justice Building.

I also fear for my son and goddaughter. A Quarter Quell is a hell of a time to be a first-year mentor. The Games this year will be bloodier, more awful, darker…. I hope Peeta and Katniss, especially Katniss, will be able to withstand the trauma.

Over the background noise of the TV coverage, I don't hear my front door opening, and only clue in that someone has arrived when I hear Danny call, "Katniss, what a surprise!"

I glance up to see my goddaughter walking into the room like she's a cadaver, her face ghastly pale. I rise quickly.

"What happened, honey? You look like you've seen…"

"… Lucy Gray Baird's ghost?" she cracks without any humor in her voice. "Not quite. It's worse."

A flicker of the curtains at the window catches my eye just then, and through the panes, I think I see someone leaving the Village. I only get a glimpse, but it appears to be a man with a snow-white beard.

"Snow was here." Katniss's voice is weak and small.

I wheel back to her, shocked. "What? Here? Why?" Stepping forward, I guide her into a chair and give her a little shake. "What did he say? Did he see Peeta?"

My goddaughter shakes her head. "No. I got into my house and Mother and Prim were there, acting funny. Then a Peacekeeper directs me into my mom's office. Snow was there, drinking our tea and eating cookies…"

I think back to my own encounter with the President, when I was just about her age. Goddamnit…. It's happening. He doesn't even care that she has a boyfriend…

"Did he threaten you? Said he would hurt people if you refused to whore yourself out to his backers?"

Katniss's face scrunches up in a mixture of confusion and disgust. "Auntie, what are you talking about?"

I freeze, thrown that my hypothesis has been debunked. A chill comes over my skin, even worse than before. "What are you talking about?" I riddle back.

Katniss's eyes flit down into her lap. "He said our Victory Tour was atrocious. He…. He said there have been uprisings in the districts."

I stagger back, eyes bulging. So that's what this is. Suddenly, multiple puzzle pieces I didn't know fit together fall into place. Why Chaff has been unusually quiet and not sent any secret communiqués, usually smuggled in the lining of the care packages of District 11 foodstuffs we get in our mail from time to time. He probably hasn't sent anything, because I imagine food production has been disrupted and that District 11 is almost certainly in open revolt right now.

I think back to Katniss and Peeta's Victory Tour, which I have to admit was a little stressful, but far from the disaster Snow is painting it as. The crowds in District 11 were roiling and grieving, mostly for the loss of Rue. When Katniss had appeared, many had cheered for her, with one man even making the three-finger gesture only seen in Twelve. We were hustled off the stage hurriedly after that; the kids didn't even have the chance to give their speech.

Things progressed more smoothly as we had continued on. District 8 had been a bit rowdy, drowning Katniss out as she had attempted to give her rote speech. I can still hear the jeering.

"Fake news!"

"Booo!"

"Tell us what you really think!"

The Career districts brought back the tension. In District 2, Brutus Barsetti failed to appear, even though he had mentored the silver medalist tribute. A messenger had come and conveyed to me that Mr. Barsetti would not be in attendance, which had struck me as odd – Victory Tours require a compulsory attendance record, same as the Reaping. District 1 was probably the least hospitable of them all – a riot practically ensued on account of Katniss killing both their tributes. By the time we had reached the Capitol, we were ready to be done and had come home exhausted but relieved that it was over.

"There's something else…" Katniss's voice brings me back to earth. Her bottom lip is trembling; she's scared out of her mind. "Auntie, Snow doesn't believe I'm really in love with Peeta. He said the berries were an act of rebellion."

A lightbulb goes off in my brain. Now I understand why Snow wouldn't want Peeta and Katniss to have a wedding. He wants to manipulate the districts into believing that the stunt with the berries was not an act of love, but an act of rebellion. At first blush, that might seem a little counter-intuitive – Snow clearly isn't happy about the uprisings, surely he wouldn't be spoiling for a fight… until you consider that if Snow paints the berries moment as rebellion, and not as love, then Katniss will be branded a rebel. And hopefully, then, enough good people in the Capitol and those still loyal in the districts would rise up to turn against Katniss and label her a traitor. Snow is hoping there are more loyalists than there are rebels.

The logic is a little dizzying, and filled with risky bets, but Snow must be pretty confident enough to be making this play. I extrapolate the possibilities out even further: Snow doesn't want a revolution. He wants a civil war. He wants to take the anger people are feeling in the districts and manipulate them against each other. Things get bad enough, and the Capitol can finally swoop in and stamp all the fighting out, and looking like they're the peacemakers while doing it. They might even make that the purpose of the Quell, only in four months' time

Katniss is sniffling, feeling a weight on her shoulders that no almost seventeen-year-old girl should ever have to feel. Taking her hands in mine, I kneel down before her, stroking my thumb over her knuckles.

"It's OK, sweetie…. I know you love Peeta… we will figure this out…"

My front door bangs open again, and Primrose scampers in, Peeta hot on her heels.

"Mandatory programming tonight!" she hollers. "Caesar Flickerman thinks it's going to be the announcement of the Quell twist!"

Even though it's nothing to celebrate, for the sake of my godchild's emotional health, I decide to pretend that it is. I smile down at her. "See? We can all bring snacks over to Peeta's place and have a party." I notice my son cock an eyebrow, but I silence him with a look. Watching the announcement of the twist is going to be hard enough for everyone. Belle would be the first one to admit that she is a terrible hostess, and my place isn't nearly clean enough. Knowing how fastidious my son is, and figuring that his place will be more neutral territory, devoid of painful memories, I decide we should hold the gathering there.

When evening falls, I head over to Peeta's place and meet the Everdeens there. My husband begs off, saying that he'll watch the coverage from our house while resting his back after baking all day.

As the anthem begins to play, Belle, the girls, Peeta and I all gather on the couch with snacks and drinks. Snow is shown mounting a podium and announcing the 75th year of the Hunger Games, and how the Quarter Quell was designed to stamp out rebellion in the districts. This recitation could not be timelier, as I suspect several districts are rebelling right now.

The President then recites the past Quarter Quell iterations: "On the 25th anniversary, as a reminder to the districts that it was their choice to initiate violence, each district was made to hold a special election, and vote on the tributes who would represent it."

Danny, Kaydilyn, Belle and I often heard stories from our parents about what it was like. Picking the kids who had to go. Polling booths were apparently set up in the district square. The voting was said to be by secret ballot, although many people talked openly about whom they voted for.

"On the 50th anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for every Capitol citizen, the districts were required to send twice as many tributes."

I can feel everyone's eyes on me: awe in Primrose's, pride in Peeta's, deep respect in Katniss's. Belle bows her head, obviously not wanting to dwell on the memories, although it turned out all right in the end.

"And now we honor our Third Quarter Quell." A pageboy steps forward with an ornate, wooden box, and the President opens it to reveal rows upon rows of envelopes. He selects the one marked with a 75 and opens the seal. Procuring the card, he reads: "On the 75th anniversary, as a reminder that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes are to be Reaped from each district's existing pool of Victors."

I can't hear anything. My head is swimming, and only certain sounds are managing to cut into this dull nothingness that has overtaken me. Belle is wailing; Peeta is sobbing. Katniss is as frozen as me, though her breasts are heaving as air comes to her in rough gasps; she seems to be hyperventilating. I recall how I lost all hearing, lost almost all sense, when Dolly Evana called my name oh so long ago. That feeling has now returned with a vengeance.

And then, just like that, the sound comes roaring back, my hearing restored, so that I can detect everyone talking and screaming at once.

The sharp BRIIING! of the landline telephone quiets us. Slowly, I rise, ignoring how everyone is looking to me.

"I'll get it." My voice seems detached as I nearly float over to the receiver and take it off the hook.

"Hello?"

There is a brief silence, broken only by heavy breathing, on the other end, before a deep voice rumbles: "I'm coming for you, you cheating little shit."

I frown. "Who is this?" I demand, my voice coming back so that it's sharper.

Another pause, as the person on the other end seems to realize that it is a woman who has answered, and not my son.

"Your boy's got a one-way ticket back into the arena, you bitch. And I'm gonna volunteer. I'm coming for his cheating ass. I will hunt for him. I will find him. And I will kill him. So strap in, Donner. Get ready to take the ride, little darling."

There is only one person in all of Panem who has ever called me 'little darling.' My blood runs cold.

"Brutus?"

CLICK. The line goes dead. I stagger away from the phone so that it dangles from the receiver, the blood pounding in my ears. For it's just now I realize: District 12 has had four Victors, but now only has three to choose from. Two female…. One male….. the first-ever male Victor from Twelve.

My son is going back into the arena.


	31. Dead Girl Walking Reprise

**Chapter 31: Dead Girl Walking Reprise**

I am screaming, my feet carrying me out of my son's house, out of the Village and towards the woods beyond. I skid to a stop in front of the fence separating me from the Meadow, and I can hear the hum of electricity. Trapped. Trapped like a mouse. Panting, wild-eyed, I turn and flee in the opposite direction, re-entering the Village from the back way. I can see the lights on in my son's house, hear voices clearly in a heated, panicked argument, but I don't stop. I don't stop until I have broken into one of the Villages' empty houses (I feel blood coating my fist, belatedly hear the shattering of glass) and then I am on my hands and knees in a vacant, basement Telephone Room, keening, sobbing, fingers digging into my blonde hair.

Back into the arena. Back into the place of nightmares from whence I alone emerged twenty-five years ago. I have to admit, I never even saw it coming. Oh, Snow sure knows how to play the cards he's been dealt, and the winner takes it all. Read them and weep, Donner… read them and weep…

Gods, wasn't one Quell enough? Apparently not. But that's where I very well might be going, unless I have to watch my goddaughter ripped away from me again, and frankly, I don't know which is worse. Whereas the only decision Peeta will have to make is whether he will need to kill his girlfriend or his mother! _His girlfriend or his mother!_

I sit up, my cries turning into sniffles. What blasphemy just went through my head? There is no way my son would _ever_ consider killing Katniss or me. But one of us will be going into the arena with him, and that's a fact. Whomever Effie picks first, the other has the option of volunteering to take her place. Perhaps Katniss and I will even decide amongst ourselves who it will be. A ladies' agreement. But as much as I know my goddaughter loves me, I cannot be certain she would be as moved to save my skin as she was to save Prim's.

Through the shattered hole in the window, I can hear voices calling my name, combing the whole of the Village until they become fainter and fainter. A tiny voice inside me is yelling at me to _Get up_!, and I do.

I go up through the basement, through the vacant mansion and exit out to the street in a daze. I break into a run and I burst into my own mansion. Hearing the sound, my husband turns into the foyer from the kitchen and dashes to me.

"Maysie, thank the State! We have to…"

I don't let him finish. Gasping, I grab his skull, yank his face down and crush his lips to mine, in the strongest and most frantic kiss I can muster. My husband freezes for only a moment, but then kisses me back fiercely; when he tries to come up for air, I tug him back down and we desperately make out some more. Hold onto each other, because right now and probably some terrible day soon, each other will be all we've got.

My hands are raking down Danny's chest, and I bunch the hem of his shirt up in my fists, trying to tug it over his head.

"This comes off." I growl it against his bottom lip and he staggers back out of our kiss, even as I whine with the loss of contact and continue to almost violently try and undress him.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing?"

The rage I feel is boiling over, mixing in with the lust also coursing through my bloodstream. The need to touch somebody, to feel and know that I am alive.

_Sorry, but I really had to wake you…. See, I decided I must ride you till I break you. 'Cause Snow, he says I gots to go – you're my last meal on death row. Shut your mouth and lose them tighty-whities!_

I throw down my husband's pants and he yelps, a sound that quickly turns into a groan when I seize the bulge in his pants and begin to stroke him madly.

"Shut up and kiss me," I hiss, pausing just long enough to pull my shirt over my head. Unclip my bra and cast it aside. I mash my mouth to his and brazenly cup him again. Danny is slowly giving in to my seduction, but he pulls back just long enough to ask, one last time:

"Are we really doing this?"

"You bet your ass we are – now take me and fuck me!"

My husband gives in. His hands are on my ass, my pussy, my breasts, in my hair. Our mouths battle for dominance, falling open around twin groans as tongues push through to twine and play.

"Hmmm…. Mmmm…. Yes, that's it…" I push my boobs nearly into his face, begging him to grope me there. "Kiss me….."

Danny raises my leg to his waist, and I hook it gallingly around his torso. I leap into his arms and we rut against each other, still kissing like mad as he carries me up the stairs to our room, throws me down on our bed. I spread my legs like a Capitol slut and my husband divebombs my mouth, kissing me again as he tugs at his shirt and finally casts it over his head.

_I need it hard, I'm a dead girl walking… Come on, tonight, I'm yours, I'm your dead girl walking… Get on all fours, take this dead girl walking… Let's go, you know the drill – I'm hot and pissed and on the pill. Bow down to the will of a dead girl walking…_

Danny slams into me with such force that I scream, clamping his thighs around me. He fucks me, rides me hard and rough, a little rougher than we've normally been in bed, but goddamnit, I _adore_ it.

"Ugghh… Huhhh…. Uhhh…. Yeah, harder….. faster…." I gasp. He picks up the pace, but not quickly enough. Growling in frustration, I flip us both, slamming his head back into the headboard as I swing my creamy thighs over to straddle him. Danny's palms are squeezing my naked boobs, and my whole body jiggles as I bounce up and down on him, still _groaning_ incessantly. I grip his hips and drive him up all the more violently into me, guiding him to hit the spot I like. The spot I know will make me come undone.

_Yeah, full steam ahead, take this dead girl walking! Let's break the bed, rock this dead girl walking. No sleep tonight for you, better chug that Mountain Dew. Slap me, pull my hair, touch me there and there and there. And no more talking…. LOVE this dead girl walking!_

* * *

The moon is high in the sky, bathing my husband and I in an ethereal glow as we lie drenched in sweat and wrapped in each other's arms after having the most amazing sex of our lives. It was even better than our wedding night. Danny is spooning me, kissing my neck as I stare vacantly at a far spot on the wall, cloaked in shadow by the bedside lamp also casting an amber illumination into the room.

"You OK?" he rumbles to me.

"Yeah," I nod. "No…. I don't know." I turn around in his embrace. "I can't bear to lose either of them again, Danny. Especially not our son. But this time, I can save one. I can save Katniss… but it would mean my going back in and probably dying."

"Don't you say that…." Danny's voice is swimming with pain. "It was bad enough thinking we were going to lose our son and our goddaughter last year. It was an agonizing choice at the Reaping. I can't bear to lose my son and my wife too!"

"Well, you're going to lose _somebody_!" I snap at him. "It might be slightly easier for you to watch our goddaughter go back in again, but it won't be for me! Not when I have the chance to stop it! But… ohhhh…." I bury my face into the pillow. There really shouldn't be a decision. I should make damn sure that it is I who goes back in, damn whatever Katniss might think about it. She gets Reaped, I volunteer. I get Reaped, she may or may not volunteer for me, and even if she does, I refuse. It should be simple as that. I should go back in. End of discussion.

But the horrors…. The pain of a Quell arena again... I blink back hot, angry tears, berating myself. You're a coward, Maysilee Donner. You're a goddamn coward.

"Danny…. I don't know if I can do this…"

He doesn't say anything for a moment. Then I hear the sheets rustling as he sits up in bed. I turn around to look at him. My husband is picking something up from the opposite bedside table. And he's actually _smiling_ , a little, as he stares at it.

"You know what….?" And he turns back to face me, lifting up the object so I can see it: it's a photograph, of me in my bridal dress on our wedding day. I remember the shot: Merle, my brother-in-law, had taken it clandestinely and given it to me as an extra wedding present. "I've known this sexy little honey for a _long_ time, and I've got a lot of _faith_ in her." Danny's voice is intense, filled with fire. Utterly sincere, even as he turns the picture frame over in his hands, pursing his lips like he's feigning pleasant surprise. "She looks a lot like you."

I watch him, enthralled, tears clinging to my cheeks as he sets the picture of me, at eighteen years old and a brand-new wife, in the center of the bed, facing me.

"I just know…. _she's_ gonna figure out the right thing to do." And he slowly rises and pads into the bathroom to take a shower.

* * *

Four months later, the morning of the Reaping dawns hot and sultry. I rise before the sun is fully up, kiss my husband's sleeping form, and go to take a shower. I wash everything. Shave my legs. Dress in the beige Reaping frock, which remarkably still fits me, all these years later (Danny has always been in awe of how quickly I got my figure back, even after giving birth to three sons). I reach for the mockingjay pin – muscle memory – and find it missing, until I remember that it's Katniss's now. That's the way it should be. I hope she wears it onto the stage today.

When I get downstairs, my dear husband is standing over a pot of coffee, from which he pours a cup and passes it to me. I smile weakly at him and take a sip.

"You ready?" His voice is gravelly, bleary.

I sigh. "As ready as I'll ever be." Over the course of this spring and summer, Peeta was a relentless taskmaster in getting Katniss and I in shape for the Quell. He pushed himself hard too, knowing that the arena is once again his destiny. Danny seemed to appreciate how even more slim my curves have become; the sex we've undergone since the night of the Quell announcement has been among the best in our nearly 23 years of marriage.

A sudden knock at the door makes us glance into the foyer. I sigh. "That'll be the Peacekeepers."

I start to head into the foyer, and Danny follows me. "Maysie… I…."

"Danny, listen," I say, my voice tumbling as I try to get the words out fast enough. "These Games are going to be bad. If…" I have to be very careful what I say, as I know our house is bugged. "If anything goes wrong, I want you to run. Get away. Head for the woods…." I gaze at him, heartbreakingly in love. "Please, promise me."

"OK. But, Maysilee, I…."

I shut him up with a kiss. Looping my hand around the nape of his neck, I press my lips to his and kiss him goodbye. Kiss him for what very well may be the last time. When we break apart, my eyes are sad. "Goodbye, Danny," I whisper. "I love you." I turn and open the door.

The Peacekeeper officers swarm me in an instant; across the street, I can see similar posses surrounding Katniss and Peeta. We are moved into the center of the Village, with me at the head of the line. There is a bit of confusion as to what order my kids should be placed in, but Peeta lets Katniss go ahead of him. Katniss and I will be roped off separate from him anyway.

We begin a slow and solemn funeral march down to the Square, where everyone else is waiting. My kids and I take the stage. Scanning the crowd, I see my husband, my two other sons and the Everdeens quickly slip into the crowd and take their mandatory places.

Clad in a gold wig, Effie Trinket lacks her usual verve. "Welcome… welcome…. As we gather here to select the female and male tribute from District 12 for the 75th anniversary, the 3rd Quarter Quell, of the Hunger Games. As always…." Her voice actually cracks. "Ladies first."

Effie crosses to the Reaping Bowl that only has two slips of paper in it and selects one as fast as possible.

"The female tribute from District 12…. Maysilee Donner."

Yes….

"I volunteer as tribute!"

Shit. She actually did it.

As Katniss moves to take her place, I desperately grab her arm. "I can't let you do that."

"You can't stop me." Her eyes are fierce – just like her mother's.

"Katniss…."

"Auntie: let go."

I do, stunned, and Katniss takes her place on stage, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

"Wonderful!" Effie squeaks. "And now for the men." She crosses over to the bowl with the one slip of paper everyone knows has my son's name on it. "The male tribute from District 12…. Peeta Mellark." There is a slight silence as Peeta takes his place, bends and kisses Katniss.

"Well, all that remains..."

It is Belle and Primrose who start it. The three-fingered salute. In response, the Peacekeepers surround our delegation and hustle us into the Justice Building. Bypassing the holding rooms completely, we are driven to the train station that bears my maiden name and practically thrown onto the locomotive, which quickly pulls away.

No chance to say goodbye. And maybe, as Katniss, Peeta and I look at each other, only two of us will be coming back here. But not all three. Not this time.

* * *

 **A/N: Song Credit - Dead Girl Walking from _Heathers_**.


	32. Reaping of Champions

**Chapter 32: Reaping of Champions**

For a long moment, the only movement to be felt is the tremors at our feet of the Capitol train flying two of us to our likely deaths… and even then, there is no way for me to tell that I myself won't leave the Capitol again alive.

It is actually Effie who stirs first, her movement prompting us all to morosely take our seats, my son and my goddaughter side by side. Tributes once again.

It is surprisingly difficult for me to reconcile how I feel about this. On the one hand, I am, of course, devastated, to have just gotten them back only to lose them again. And I _will_ lose at least one of them this time, though really, it will probably be both of them. Snow and the Capitol are through with District 12's wit and chicanery in the forms of its Victors and tributes – whether it is Katniss and Peeta, or me, or Haymitch Abernathy with his forcefield magic act, or even Lucy Gray Baird (I've only seen a minute or two of her Games, but something tells me that the ability to tame a mutt – even in those mad, early years of the death match – was not something above-board).

On the other hand, a truly strange part of me is _relieved_. Bizarre, I know. But no one has ever said that being a Victor is an easy life – in fact, it's quite a hard one. Had the Quell twist been anything other than what it is, Katniss and Peeta would have been by my side this year, mentoring two and perhaps possibly more scared children (or _adults_ – a Quell twist like that hasn't happened yet, but depending on who is Reaped this year, we're probably about to get a taste of that soon enough). They would have been required to haggle with sponsors, and almost certainly have been coerced into doing unspeakable things, all in the name of keeping our tributes alive. Never mind that they are promised to each other. Never mind that my son has managed to woo the formerly hardened heart of my goddaughter. These two kids before me would have been whored out, no question – so, in a way, I can thank the arena and Snow's shrewdness that they're not. More than a few of my colleagues have spoken about how killing in the arena seemed _easier_ compared to what they've been made to do after. I am inclined to agree, and I've been luckier than most. I don't know how much Katniss or my son know about the prostitution I've needed to do over the years (though I did allude to it, with Katniss back in March), but I can say unequivocally that I only got through it because I married a man who loves me, and started a family with him that I love more than life. I had someone – multiple someones – to come back to. Loved ones who gave me the happiness that outweighed the pain and trauma… and a purpose to see that they wouldn't be harmed should I refuse to toe the Capitol's line. Every horrible thing I've done or been manipulated into, I would do again, if it meant my husband and my sons, my sister and brother-in-law and my niece, my best friend and her babies, would not be touched. I probably should have done it all and even more, for that might have ensured that Peeta and Katniss would never have been Reaped in the first place. That this Quell twist would have been declared invalid or never been written into stone by the simple fact that we wouldn't have had the numbers. There would have been no male Victor to represent District 12.

Once upon a time, when he was a little boy, Peeta had asked me, "Mommy, why is there no male Victor living in here, in Victors' Village?" He was probably about eight. I had told him we had never had a strong enough boy tribute – a weak answer, in retrospect, and also a little dishonest, as I remember thinking painfully of Haymitch in that moment. Haymitch should be here, not me. But then, it would probably be him as the tribute once more, with Katniss by his side and no mentor to guide them, because without me, Peeta wouldn't exist. Anyway, young Peeta had then declared how he was going to be the first male Victor from District 12. "That's nice, son," Danny had said, even as my husband and I looked at each other before I fled from the room so that none of them would see me weep.

Even if everything had played out last year exactly as it did, up to the stunt with the berries, it is painful for me to admit that in the Top Two battle that the Capitol was denied, Katniss would have come out on top. Bows and arrows beat a knife any day.

My greed is the reason we have all been placed in this position. My refusal to choose – and my gall in daring the Capitol to choose instead, forcing them to essentially punt – has damned us all. And I will lose what I have fought so hard to hold onto anyway. Oh, many of my old friends – both those being deployed back into war, and those who aren't – will blame the Capitol, and rightly so, but if they were really looking hard enough for a scapegoat, they would be well within their rights to blame me. Some might even blame Katniss and Peeta, who appear to have started the most serious rebellion in generations almost completely by accident.

I shake my head to clear it. Running through what-if scenarios dating back a year, and even decades, is pointless. The past is the past. The present is here, now. I am the mentor once again… and as I settle into my role as easily as putting on a coat or a new skin, I realize that Katniss did the right thing, by volunteering for me. That _I_ did the right thing, by not fighting her harder on it. In a Hunger Games as brutal as this one is likely to be, we will all have our roles to play, and better to play to one's strengths than to be put in a position where you have only your weaknesses in your arsenal. I haven't been a tribute in twenty-five years… and despite how I am still able to maintain the rigors of an active sex life and keep my husband satisfied, I am not at all certain that this same energy would have translated well to murdering again in the arena. I may be in shape, even more so now after Peeta's breakneck training regimen that he insisted we all undergo in preparation for the Quell, but I am still a 41-year-old woman. No longer the 16-year-old girl I once was. I have no idea how I would have fared trying to keep up with my son and other tributes younger and stronger than I… and seeing as how I will _never_ know, it is probably just as well that I didn't try and find out.

The dinner is lying on the table, untouched. Not even Effie has reached for the culinary delights, probably out of politeness. Once it becomes clear that none of us are in the mood to eat (though the kids will need to, to bulk up for the arena), Effie dabs at her lips with her napkin and breathlessly squeaks, "Well, why don't we watch the recaps of the other Reapings?"

 _This_ is going to be fun. Pulling out a file folder I prepared weeks ago and have kept with me, I take out a guidesheet and pass copies out to the kids. In the history of the Hunger Games, there have been 75 Victors. Only 16 are deceased. They are, in order of Victory:

Ahenobarbus Romero (District 2)

Luxe St. James (District 1)

Orchus, surname unknown (District 11)

Wheaton Vale (District 9)

Platinum Wesley (District 1)

Tiberius Drake (District 2)

Seaward Docker (District 4)

Lucy Gray Baird (District 12)

Vera O'Rourke (District 7)

Gates Gramdan (District 3)

Wren Lessia (District 11)

Thisbe Everett (District 4)

Cora Shutter (District 8 – she passed six months ago, during this past Winter Festival)

Eamon Sullivan (District 7, and another recent passing – he died suddenly of alcohol poisoning just days after we left his homeland on Katniss and Peeta's Victory Tour)

Wonder Spicer (District 1)

Crystal Flute (District 1)

Peeta studies the Deceased List with intrigue. "Half of the names here are Careers, so we won't have to face them. That's good, right?"

I smile at him tightly. "Not quite. Sounds like you need to brush up on your class notes from Hunger Games History. There's more."

I provide my students with a second sheet. This one tabulates the number of wins for each district:

District 1: 13 Wins

District 2: 17 Wins

District 3: 3 Wins

District 4: 10 Wins

District 5: 3 Wins

District 6: 3 Wins

District 7: 6 Wins

District 8: 4 Wins

District 9: 5 Wins

District 10: 3 Wins

District 11: 4 Wins

District 12: 4 Wins

Below that, a table factors in the sixteen dead based on this and lists each district's "existing pool of Victors" based on their gender:

District 1: 9 Living Victors (4M, 5F)

District 2: 15 Living Victors (9M, 6F)

District 3: 2 Living Victors (1M, 1F)

District 4: 8 Living Victors (4M, 4F)

District 5: 3 Living Victors (2M, 1F)

District 6: 3 Living Victors (2M, 1F)

District 7: 4 Living Victors (3M, 1F)

District 8: 3 Living Victors (1M, 2F)

District 9: 4 Living Victors (3M, 1F)

District 10: 3 Living Victors (1M, 2F)

District 11: 2 Living Victors (1M, 1F)

District 12: 3 Living Victors (1M, 2F)

My goddaughter is poring over the stats with increasing dismay. "The only districts who have multiple options for each gender are the Careers!" she gasps. "Everyone else, there is going to be a single Victor for at least one gender."

Peeta tssks, shaking his head. "The pools, benches or whatever you want to call them aren't very deep at all. These Reapings are going to be _horrible_!"

I nod grimly. "Exactly."

My sons sighs loudly. "Well, we'd better get them over with." At his nod, Effie purses her lips tightly and almost reluctantly turns on the TV.

We start predictably with District 1. 4 men and 5 women are all roped off on the stage before the Justice Building. I recognize their names and run through them rotely. The men: Gleam Cobble, old and teetering. Luster Lancaster, grey-haired but still well built. Brilliance Rosencrantz, triumphed two years after Chaff. And, of course, Gloss Delacroix, still shiny and beautiful and on the cusp of 30 years of age. The women: Silk Seville, deep lines in her face. Ermine Butler, who won two years _before_ Chaff. Jade Boleyn – she got the Crown the year before I did. Cashmere Delacroix, Gloss's twin sister and a blonde bombshell. Song Nuo is last of all, a sweet-faced woman with light brown skin who won the year after Finnick. She wasn't a classically trained Career, and has managed to make a quiet life for herself; I heard she married a Peacekeeper, and they now have a baby son.

Their escort reaches into the girls' bowl with a flourish. "Cashmere Delacroix!"

Cashmere bounds over to stand with the escort, beaming. The Capitol representative then moves on to the men.

"Gloss Delacroix!"

On the screen, it looks like Luster is trying to open his mouth to say something, prompting Gloss to step into his personal space and cower the ruggedly older man with a look. To my surprise, Luster backs down, supporting Gleam Cobble and his walker while Gloss springs over to join his sister.

Siblings in the arena – and consecutive Victors, no less, only the second and still most-recent time a district has managed such a feat. The twins will be lethal, and I hope my kids will be on their guard. Before I forget, I whip out a notebook and begin to write down who has been picked:

_Gloss Delacroix_

_Victor: 63rd Games_

_Age: 30_

_Cashmere Delacroix_

_Victor: 64th Games_

_Age: 29_

District 2 is next, and Peeta's jaw drops at the image that now appears – there are so many Victors to choose from, there is barely enough room on the stage to hold them all _and_ their escort _and_ the district mayor. This district has 9 men and 6 women to choose from. My brain quickly flips through the names again, straining a little this time, but managing. The men: Granyte Tanner, District 2, slumped in his wheelchair. Honorius Manchetti, the first of three relatives to all win the Games – a legend. Virtus Manchetti, his brother. Their cousin, Justus Scavo. Bartimaeus Pastier, who has never been the kindest to me - probably because he mentored both of the boys I killed in my Games. Ares Valerio, who mentored the District 2 girls during my Quell. My eyes narrow on my old mentor, Brutus Barsetti, swaying a little on the balls of his feet and with an absolutely psychotic grin on his face. Phoebus, who brought the Crown back to District 2 after nearly a decade of shut-outs by outlier districts during the 50s – the worst record any of the Career districts have ever experienced. And finally, Lupus Pagano, who won just three years ago. The women: Boudicca, the madame who has been running District 2's tribute training academy for over half a century. Antigone Frey, who won just a few years before Kaydilyn and I were born. Dido Castremi, a Victor whom everyone says is severely, chemically imbalanced. Lyme Tanner, the niece of Granyte who won my first year as a mentor and was the only Career to win in that entire decade. Enobaria Malachite, who mentored Clove last year. And finally, Berenice Equita – she won the summer before Katniss's father died.

The escort turns to select the women first: "Dido Castremi!"

Dido starts towards the center of the stage, giggling madly and clapping her hands, when someone hollers:

"Sit down, you insane bitch! I volunteer as tribute!" And baring her fanged teeth, Enobaria Malachite takes her place.

The escort grins tightly, openly relieved that District 2 has been prevented from nominating their most unstable Victor. She turns to the men: "Lupus Pagano!"

Oh no… Lupus is only 21 years of age; he would be a force to be reckoned with….

"I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!" Brutus literally shoves Lupus aside, so hard that the younger man is thrown clear off the stage, and people in the crowd barely scramble to sort of catch his fall.

All the color drains from my face. I should have taken him at his word that he would do it, but still… I didn't think he actually would. Only two years older than me and still stacked, Brutus will take to the arena in the way a wrecking ball takes to a building. Katniss is wincing so hard, her teeth are drawing a bead of blood from her bottom lip. Beside her, both of my son's golden eyebrows have vacated his forehead to jump nearly into his hairline.

"I'm starting to think the Dido gal was more OK in the head."

"He's still in remarkable shape," Katniss squeaks, her grey orbs overwhelmed by Brutus's sheer muscle.

"Yeah. You should have seen him in his heyday. He was my mentor." I mention.

"WHAT?!" Katniss and Peeta shriek.

"But that doesn't make any sense!" Peeta cries out. Drat. I probably shouldn't have said anything. At my quick prompting, Effie pauses the tape.

"Guys, by the time I was a tribute, Lucy Gray Baird had been gone for years. There _was_ no Victor from District 12 to mentor us. If a situation like that arose for any district, it was a tribute's right to have the Capitol provide a mentor for them. Thus, a mentor from another district would be assigned to that district out on loan. Brutus had only been a Victor two years when he was tapped to mentor my friends and me. I've known him for a long time. He's…. a complicated individual." Katniss raises her own eyebrows at this, but says nothing. I busy myself with scribbling in my notebook.

_Brutus Barsetti_

_Victor: 48th Games_

_Age: 45_

_Enobaria Malachite_

_Victor: 62nd Games_

_Age: 32_

I turn back to Effie. "Resume the tape."

Here is where the Reapings will begin to get painful. Only a single, solitary man and woman each stand before the District 3 Justice Building. I honestly wonder why the escort is bothering to go through the Reaping at all. But he does:

"Wiress Okamoto!" The woman who captured the Crown the very night of Danny's and my first wedding anniversary sways to her place with a vacant stare in her eyes. It has been said that she suffered a stroke not long after being pulled from the arena, and has struggled with aphasia ever since then.

"Beetee Latier!" Wiress's partner, a bespectacled man with dark skin, adjusts his spectacles over his nose and dutifully takes his place beside her. He's been a fixture in the Capitol for forty years, and his Games finale is the stuff of lore – electrocuted six tributes at once; the entire Career pack.

_Beetee Latier_

_Victor: 35th Games_

_Age: 54_

_Wiress Okamoto_

_Victor: 53rd Games_

_Age: 38_

District 4 is up next. Interestingly, they are the only district to have multiple options for both genders evenly distributed: four Victors on each side. The men: Manannan Ulmo, Mags' first successful protégé and who was born the year the Hunger Games came into existence. He still has lean muscle in some places, but it is beginning to become flabby with old age. Halibut Shore, who won when I was pregnant with my first child, Jonadab. Finnick Odair, the handsome and charismatic boy who was crowned a decade ago at 14 – the youngest ever. Odysseus Wheeler, who claimed Victory the year before Katniss and Peeta. The women: dear old Mags Flanagan – the grandmother I never had. Briseis Barrington, who won the year my parents got married. Cerulea Larson, Victor just three years after her. And finally, Annie Cresta, who is visibly trembling.

And then screams when her name is called.

"Annie Cresta!"

"NOOOOO! NOOOOO! I can't go back! I _won't_ go back!" The camera is shaking dangerously, and across the way, I can see Finnick watching Annie fall apart in absolute terror himself. The shot zooms back out. And that's when Peeta notices:

"H-hey, that old lady looks like she wants to volunteer!"

And indeed, Mags is raising her hand and jumping up and down, but the Peacekeepers are ignoring her, as they physically have to manhandle Annie into place. I start yelling at the TV myself.

"There's a volunteer! A volunteer, you fools!" I choke up and silently curse the misfortune of Mags suffering that stroke a handful of years ago, which has rendered her almost completely unable to talk.

"They won't abide by her. She…. she has to say the words…" Katniss's voice is breaking. I think she may have hit the nail on the head. If you want to take a tribute's place, you have to say the words 'I volunteer as tribute.' Except Mags can't.

Peeta is now screaming at Briseis and Cerulea to do something; Annie is coming disturbingly unglued, causing such a commotion that more Peacekeepers have to be brought in. "SAY SOMETHING, damn you cowards!"

The escort is now trembling himself as he dithers over to the male bowl.

"Finnick Odair!"

Finnick smiles almost good-naturedly and saunters over to stand beside Annie. As soon as he is within reach, the auburn-haired beauty throws her arms around him and kisses him full on the mouth. Finnick holds the kiss for a moment, amidst cries of shock and wolf-whistles before drawing Annie back by her shoulders and giving her a meaningful look. She whimpers, but nods, and he rests his forehead against hers.

As the feed cuts away, Peeta puts his hands over his eyes. "What a fucking disaster." I don't even have the heart to reprimand him on language as I take down the Reaped names in my notebook.

_Finnick Odair_

_Victor: 65th Games_

_Age: 24_

_Annie Cresta_

_Victor: 70th Games_

_Age: 23_

Katniss looks in danger of becoming physically ill. "I can't take much more of this…."

But we have to – we're only a third of the way done.

District 5 is next: two men and a single woman. The woman, Circe Montoya, is selected without fanfare; the escort doesn't even completely pull the slip of paper from the bowl, much less unfurl it, before calling out her name. In that crucial next moment, the two men look at each other: Emrys Avery, who won the year immediately following the First Quarter Quell, by rigging an elaborate trap that literally started catapulting fireball bombs throughout his arena, eliminating the remaining competition and sending most of the arena landscape up in flames. People still call him 'The Gamemaker Victor,' and the Gamemakers themselves have tried multiple times (with mixed success) to replicate the pyrotechnics he created. The other man is Matthias Fletcher, a severe alcoholic who won the 46th Games, immediately after Chaff.

"Matthias Fletcher!"

Matthias leans over and vomits over everyone gathered in the first three rows. He is still doubled over, hacking and wheezing, as Peacekeepers helpfully guide him to his proper place. I take down the names.

_Matthias Flecther_

_Victor: 46th Games_

_Age: 45_

_Circe Montoya_

_Victor: 59th Games_

_Age: 33_

District 6's Reaping is exactly identical to the district preceding it. Two men and one woman are on the stage. Their escort draws the woman's name so fast, we almost miss it.

"Maeve Collins!"

The woman who won the year immediately before Chaff doesn't move.

"Maeve Collins!" The escort hollers louder, after clearing her throat. A Peacekeeper jabs Maeve with the butt of his gun and she actually stumbles a few steps to the left. It's not the exact center of the stage, but it's close enough.

Now it's time to choose amongst the men: Chevy Anderson, who became his district's first Victor by mastering an arena taking place in a trainyard, and giving hope to his people after they had waited for a champion for 28 years. Mitt Compton, who won the year after I had my first child in the biggest clusterfuck of a Games anyone has ever watched. It is the latter's name who is chosen, and I groan.

"Mitt Compton!"

A pair of stoned-out morphling addicts getting thrown back to the wolves. Now their mentor, Chevy will be at least competent in trying to get them sponsors, but I wouldn't blame him if he just threw up his hands and called it a day.

_Mitt Compton_

_Victor: 55th Games_

_Age: 35_

_Maeve Collins_

_Victor: 44th Games_

_Age: 48_

District 7 unwisely opens with a close-up shot of Johanna Mason's face, and she is livid. She actually puts a hand up in front of the camera lens, forcing the media to back off. They pan out, to show the three men and one woman being selected for death, and my heart cries out in agony. As Vera O'Rourke has been dead for many years, that leaves Johanna Mason (the fierce and beautiful girl who won four years ago after pretending to be a weakling) as the only living female Victor from Seven. Two of the men are now getting their arms under the third and hefting him out of his wheelchair to stand with dignity. The elderly gentleman is Jules Elmer – the earliest-winning Victor still alive in Panem today. The Victor of the 7th Hunger Games. He is 84 years old. At his left is Blight Gavin, the terrible rogue who won the year Danny and I got married. To Jules's right is Connor Murphy – mid-30s and handsome, and whom Blight coached to Victory only four years after he himself won the Crown.

The escort considerately waits until Jules is stable before crossing to the girls' bowl. Like the escort in Five, she makes the selection that we all know is a formality quickly, but at least she has the justification that Jules might not be able to stand for long.

"Johanna Mason!"

Johanna promptly makes a rude gesture at the camera, and the editors fuzz out the image of her middle finger a second too late. The escort cringes and scampers to the bowl containing the slips for the men, probably moving quickly so as to get the hell away from her.

"Jules Elmer!"

The audio actually picks up groans and agonized cries coming from the crowd, but Jules holds his head high bravely. "I have had a good journey in this life…. I am ready to go to rest. But mark my words: if this Quell is allowed to proceed…. Panem falls!" Jules says this with such passion, he momentarily lurches out of the grasp of his friends. Swaying dangerously, he starts to fall backward himself, and Blight and Connor cry out as they barely catch him. Blight snaps his head to the Peacekeepers.

"He can't do this, for pity's sake, please!" When the officers are unmoved by Jules's advanced age, Blight swallows hard:

"I volunteer. I volunteer as tribute."

Connor sends him a grateful look, but Jules tries to protest. "No, boy, leave me! I'm old, I've lived my life!"

"I _volunteer_ , Mr. Head Peacekeeper!" Blight calls, louder and more forcefully this time. Connor eases Jules back into his wheelchair as Blight stands beside Johanna. I let a whimpering sob escape. Blight was actually coerced, blackmailed into volunteering by his own people the first time he was Reaped. And now, he has been behooved to do so again, though this time of his own volition. But, really, it is unclear how much choice he really had.

Peeta's eyes are glassy, as he nods with deep respect. "Magnificent valor…." he murmurs, half in awe.

_Blight Gavin_

_Victor: 52nd Games_

_Age: 39_

_Johanna Mason_

_Victor: 71st Games_

_Age: 21_

The feed cuts away to District 8 so fast, we almost get whiplash. The two women there are: Cecelia Rheys, the stunningly beautiful young woman who Brutus has been hopelessly in love with since she triumphed the year I had to bring Rye to the Capitol. Beside her is Cotton Rivers, who's grown taller in the eight years since her Victory. She's openly sneering. The single man, Woof Barton, is shouting something unintelligible, so that the escort can barely overpower him in volume when she announces:

"Cecelia Rheys!"

There is a commotion from down below, Peacekeepers shouting, and for a second, I think protestors are making a go of bullrushing the stage, and may even actually get up the steps. People do get up the steps, but they are only Cecelia's three children – Cardella, Aaron and Milo, all ranging in age from 15 down to 2. Cecelia's husband, Bert (I met him on Katniss and Peeta's Victory Tour – a lovely man), also manages to join them, and pulling his wife close, he kisses her deeply. She kisses him back sweetly, also drawing her babies close as they sob and cling to her. The Peacekeepers mercifully give the little family a moment, letting Cecelia painfully extract herself from her little ones on her own.

To announce Cecelia's district partner, the escort doesn't even bother to cross the few feet to the mens' Reaping Bowl.

"Woof Barton!"

"How's everybody doing today? Who's ready for a concert?!" Woof shouts out with jubilation, eyes shifting a little uncertainly. He truly doesn't seem to know or understand what's going on, as the Peacekeepers have to just about frog-march him into position.

"Concert?" Katniss's jaw drops.

My son is digging his nails through his scalp, wracked with sympathy for the octogenarian. "Oh no…"

I am gripping the edge of the table by now, my knuckles bone-white. This spectacle bypassed painful a long time ago and is rapidly approaching unbearable. Still, I must take down the names.

_Woof Barton_

_Victor: 13th Games_

_Age: 80_

_Cecelia Rheys_

_Victor: 57th Games_

_Age: 33_

District 9 has four Victors to choose from, their existing pool identical to that of Seven: three males. A single female. The female is Evelyn Morris – she looks grandmotherly, but walks slower than her 68 years would suggest as her name is called. The men: Ben Cooper (I remember Brutus and I watching his Games on TV hours before we left for my own Victory Tour). Nolan de Naro, a hothead with a notorious temper. And the young man who may or may not be Ben's illegitimate son, Abram Mills – the Victor with the lowest training score in history.

Alleged father and son stand on opposite, uncomfortable extremes of the age spectrum – the father is somewhere in his sixties, the son in his mid-twenties. So it is probably District Nine's best bet to send in the average between the two.

"Nolan de Naro!"

The hulking and intimidating wrestler, after thirty-five years on the outside, is a tribute once more.

_Nolan de Naro_

_Victor: 40th Games_

_Age: 50_

_Evelyn Morris_

_Victor: 23rd Games_

_Age: 68_

District 10 is a harbinger of what we all know will come for our own district; there is one man and two women on the stage. Bovina Martinez, standing remarkably straight even while using a cane that still is probably just a prop for her, was Mags' immediate successor. She's a dear, dear lady, feisty and always acting forever young. Elena Perez, who had to watch both her children die in my own Games.

The man, Roan Tully, won when Peeta and Katniss were only a few months old. I was largely healed from giving birth by the time I left that summer to mentor in the Capitol, but I remember having a mild bout of post-partum depression – a melancholy which only got worse once I lost both my tributes.

"Elena Perez!"

I really hope Katniss and Peeta will not have to kill her. Had I been Reaped, I know that Elena would have made it her mission to hunt me down and kill me in revenge. For coming home instead of one of her own flesh and blood.

"Roan Tully!"

Roan seethes with hatred and resentment; when he takes his place, he points directly into the camera. "Everdeen, I'm coming for you, bitch."

Uh oh.

_Roan Tully_

_Victor: 58th Games_

_Age: 35_

_Elena Perez_

_Victor: 34th Games_

_Age: 59_

When District 11 comes on, I stand up out of my chair, turning away.

"No – I can't watch this…"

I feel a warm presence by my side, and my son wraps me in a hug. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

But through his arms, I do anyway. As with District 3, there is only a single man and a single woman to choose from. Knowing this is a formality, the Eleven escort actually approaches Mayor Sasse and appears to ask why they can't just whisk the Reaping Balls away; what's the point? No, comes the reply, via a hot mic. Even so, the escort insolently stands there in the center of the stage, not crossing to either Reaping Ball, not even looking at them, as he calls out:

"Seeder Crue! Chaff Habarti!"

My two dear friends come to the center of the stage, Chaff brazenly nudging the escort aside with his elbow, and laughing when the meek little man topples to the ground. Seeder shakes his one good hand, and the feed suddenly monkeycams dangerously and winks out. We hear screams splitting the air before the sound is cut off.

_Chaff Habarti_

_Victor: 45th Games_

_Age: 48_

_Seeder Crue_

_Victor: 31st Games_

_Age: 61_

We are watching ourselves. I am called… and Katniss volunteers. Then Peeta is conscripted. The seal of the Hunger Games appears, and the broadcast ends.

I don't need to write down these names - I know them just as well as I know myself - but I do anyway, trying not to let my tears fall and splotch the paper.

_Peeta Mellark_

_Victor: 74th Games_

_Age: 17_

_Katniss Everdeen_

_Victor: 74th Games_

_Age: 17_

Effie's manicured nails are quivering violently so that it takes her three attempts to click the remote's off switch. Stepping out of my embrace, Peeta lifts a hand to his mouth. "Excuse me." And he runs from the dining car, retching. I hope he makes it to the toilet in time.

I collapse back into my chair, a severe headache coming on. Through my graying vision, I can feel my goddaughter's eyes on me.

"…. Auntie? Are you all right?"

It's a stupid question, even she must know it, but I don't snap at her. Tears pricking, I shake my head. "No…" I almost moan. A long, lingering pause, and then I manage to get out:

"Katty?"

"Yes?" A slight tremor goes through her voice, at the pet name I don't often use.

"Why did you volunteer for me?"

Her answer surprises me:

"For the same reason I volunteered for Prim: to protect you." Silence reigns again, and I think that is the end of it, but then my goddaughter continues. "And also because I couldn't bear to think of watching Peeta fight, from the outside looking in, and being helpless to stop any harm from coming to him. Besides, I don't know anything about mentoring. That would have ensured your death – I refuse to lose either of you due to my own incompetence." She sighs. "That is why…. when the time comes…. I want you to keep Peeta alive over me."

I lower my hand from my eyes and sit up. "What?"

Katniss is just gazing at me sadly, with wisdom far beyond her years. Wisdom no girl her age should ever have. "Auntie Maysilee, it's me Snow wants anyway. I'm the one who pulled out the berries; I'm the one he threatened. If he wants me to die so that no more people get hurt in some uprisings, then I have to give him what he wants. Which means you now have to give me what _I_ want. And that is to do whatever it takes to keep Peeta alive. He's your son." She holds my stare. "Promise me."

I nod weakly. "OK," I croak. But dangling between my back and the backrest of my chair, I cross my middle and index fingers together. Katniss may intend to give Snow what he wants… but I don't.


	33. Chariots of Fire

**Chapter 33: Chariots of Fire**

It took me a long time to drift off last night. Even then, I don't know how much sleep I truly got – I think I might be suffering from a light case of insomnia, for if I _did_ sleep at any point, I don't remember closing my eyes. The first gray hues poking in through the curtains in my sleeping car nudge me into rising, showering and dressing for the day.

We'll be in the Capitol in a little over two hours. I decide to use that time privately and productively, going over all the facts as they have been laid out to me:

This is a Quarter Quell that will see two dozen of the 59 living Victors thrown back into the arena for the Capitol's own amusement. The twist and the Reapings that followed have yielded tributes with a never-before-seen array of age and life experience – full-grown adults who will be required to make a mad dash for the Cornucopia and fight to the death once again. The oldest tribute is an 80-year-old grandpa (Woof) already experiencing significant mental and likely even physical decline. Approaching 70, Evelyn Morris of 9 is not far behind in age, nor is Seeder Crue; Beetee Latier is in his late 50s. Then, there are of course, my peers, Chaff and Brutus – nearing middle age but not quite over-the-hill. Everyone else is still young and the picture of health (relatively speaking, a Victor's physiological well-being is always in flux) right on down to my kids, both of whom are still of the normal Reaping age. I feel tremors starting to take over my body from nerves, and I have to sit down to get them to stop. Just what _will_ an arena filled with grown men and women look like? I don't know, nor does anyone else, but I have a feeling it is going to be bad, tragic and any other pitiful terms that come to mind.

I then turn to studying the competition themselves. Two of the Reaped Victors – one of whom is my old mentor - have already explicitly indicated that they are gunning for my kids. That they intend to murder my tributes. Both give me grave cause for concern: though slightly older than me, Brutus Barsetti is still in remarkable shape, and still commands an intimidating presence among his fellow Careers even when he simply just walks down the street. Katniss was practically ogling the man when he leapt forward for another chance at glory; between that and the way she has shown clear attraction towards my son, it is clear that she really appreciates men with solid muscles, which tells me more about my goddaughter's sexual tastes and preferences than I have _ever_ wanted to know.

Then there is Roan Tully, who is still lean and strong and in his prime after the Games he won 17 years ago, the year that both my goddaughter and my youngest son were born. Mid-30s now, Roan is known for being brash, aggressive and particularly cruel for a Victor from an outsider district. Many of my colleagues and I have learned well to steer clear of the only male Victor from 10; his two female counterparts, Bovina Martinez and Elena Perez, barely tolerate him. When he was a tribute, Roan frequently spurned their help and even disparaged them in public, referring to them in his first interview with Caesar Flickerman as "those Sazi bitches." I only know a smattering of information about District 10 culture, but that is a racial slur if I ever heard one. The cultural rifts between the settlers of Ten and the Anasazi indigenous people – though they have seen hopeful improvements in reconciliation since Elena's day – still hover like smoke over the district as much as the animosity between Merchant and Seam still hovers over Twelve. Like my Merchant people, the settlers in Ten have always expected that the Hunger Games was for the lower class… so when Roan got Reaped soon after I give birth for the third and final time, the southernmost district's elite took the decision hard. Roan was resentful, and although he productively used that emotion to hack his way through three Careers, his own district partner and two other tributes to reach the top, that resentment has festered like an open wound in him ever since. I've predicted that some Victors might lay the blame for this disaster at the feet of my kids, and Roan's temperament has inspired him to do just that. He is being forced back into a world he never wanted or asked for or imagined he would be a part of, and now he's out for revenge.

I cannot afford to dismiss either of these two men out of hand. Every Victor may have their vice, their… addiction, but those of Brutus and Roan will not have incapacitated or addled them in any crucial way. Brutus's kryptonite is sex (one could say it's also mine, resulting in a healthier sex life and marriage than most other women in my district), while Roan's is sheer cruelty. I shudder to think what either of them would do should they get their hands on Katniss. Roan would probably kill her outright. Dark and disturbing as it is, I cannot immediately assume that Brutus wouldn't do something like rape my goddaughter before bashing her head in. After all, I only need think back to my interview prep with Brutus, long ago, and how he propositioned me. He felt guilty about it afterwards, and we've both made our peace with it, but…. that was then. I don't think the Brutus I met when I was 16, the Brutus I know, is the Brutus who just volunteered to return to a contained war zone.

I shake my head, trying not to cry. There definitely is a part of me that seems to be going into mourning when thinking about Brutus. About how he openly threatened my son, then made good on that threat by willfully stepping back into the Games. The chances of my mentor and my baby boy confronting each other are higher than I am comfortable with, and too much for me to contemplate. I think about how blindingly enraged Brutus became at the death of Cato last summer. How he declared up and down that my Peeta had 'cheated'. That is not the way the Games are played, he insisted. My response to that should have been, well, then how _are_ they played, Brutus? How can you play a Game with close to zero rules? Brutus taught me about the values of good sportsmanship, and that the person who is Victor is so because he or she _deserves_ to be. He never said that about my son. Or Katniss, for that matter, although I imagine that if Katniss had walked out of the arena alone, he would have accepted her as Victor. Brutus first introduced me to the concept of glory with honor. Have the Games so thoroughly radicalized Brutus – a man who regularly watches re-runs of media-broadcasted, state-sanctioned murder for fun – that he thinks the only tributes who know how to play the Games are the ones whom he supports? That Peeta and Katniss showed no honor in their pursuit of glory so that therefore they are unworthy of either? Somehow illegitimate? For my old mentor, an ancient quote from that almost mythical statesman of what was once the United Kingdom, Winston Churchill, must ring true: "You were given the choice between war and dishonor. You chose dishonor and you will have war." And Brutus will be the one to wage it. He's made no equivocations about that.

I blink back the tears. My relationship with Brutus as I once knew it might be finished. He might be re-entering the arena for a second chance at glory and a dash of vengeance. He might have a score to settle… but he won't settle it. He threatened my son. And when you threaten my son, you threaten me. He won't have Peeta. Not my son. Not my children.

Unfortunately, Brutus and Roan are not my only problems. Nolan de Naro of 9, though not much younger than Beetee, is still remarkably strong for a man his age, and is known to be a bit of a loose cannon. Add to that the fact that District 9 tends to look out for their own, and probably won't be sympathetic to the uprisings or the rebel cause, and Nolan might be a threat to my tributes. He hasn't made it clear that he is coming for them, the way Brutus and Roan have, but I can almost guarantee Nolan wouldn't be interested in an alliance. Cecelia Rheys of 8, though well into her thirties herself and a mother thrice over like me, could also be a wild card. When Cecelia won, the year I had to bring baby Rye to the Capitol, she personally butchered through ten tributes, earning her the nickname the Angel of Death. Enlisted back into the arena due to Cora's passing and Cotton's unwillingness to volunteer, Cecelia has something to live for and get home to – three little babies and her husband, a family that means everything to her. I never have known Cecelia that well, but I do know her well enough to postulate that desire to return safely to her family means more to her than any bigger picture of a potential revolution. The one thing that makes me take pause is that she is from District 8, where current fighting has apparently been fiercest (according to intelligence I've received) and where some of the worst battles took place during the Dark Days.

The Delacroix twins… I don't want to think about them. But if Brutus assumes the position of Pack Leader and issues a manhunt order for Katniss, Gloss and his ditzy sister will back him without question, like automatons. Enobaria Malachite would and likely will carry out similar orders with relish.

That's seven tributes right there – nearly a third of the field – who could be a contender for the Crown and thus a threat to the survival of my kids. I wish I could say the number of tributes who are easy cannon fodder is even higher. But so far, that list just comes down to the following people: Woof Barton, decrepit and probably not too many years off from a natural death anyway, will be lucky to make it off his pedestal. Mitt and Maeve – the Morphlings from Six – are stoned off their asses and will likely be going through withdrawal by the time the gong sounds. Matthias Fletcher can barely walk without the help of a beer bottle; he will likely be suffering from similar substance abuse afflictions. Wiress will need Beetee to give her directions like he's her own personal traffic cop, and poor Annie Cresta will likely be wandering in literal circles when she isn't glued to Finnick's side….

Finnick… that gives me an idea, and with it, a little bit of hope. With Annie in the mix, Finnick will almost without a doubt stay far away from the Careers. He won't let them anywhere near Annie. He will be protecting her. If I could convince him to protect two more… Finnick Odair has a monopoly on some of the biggest financiers in the Capitol. He's handsome, charismatic, and an exceptional fighter, particularly in water. Armed with a trident, he could fend off bigger combatants and shield my kids. Oh, the man might be wary of taking anyone else under his wing if it might interfere with his ability to protect Annie, but my kids aren't completely hopeless. Katniss has her bow; Peeta is quick with his knife. Anybody who thinks they just waltzed through their first arena (never mind that the Careers did most of the work) is kidding themselves.

That doesn't mean my goddaughter and my son aren't vulnerable, though. There are going into an arena with experienced killers, not trembling children. They will need allies, and it is something I will have to sell them on, likely this evening or tomorrow morning before Training, when I finally have them alone to talk.

But other than Finnick, who else could I trust that is capable? Chaff immediately comes to mind; he practically fell in love with Katniss when she dared to proverbially tell the Capitol to go fuck themselves. He may have only one hand, but I have personally witnessed how much damage he can do with that hand. And Seeder Crue may be getting up in years, but she's no wilting flower. An alliance with the pair from District 11 could grant my kids a comfortable degree of safety. Add Finnick into the band, even better.

Johanna Mason… she can be quite brittle, and even reminds me a little bit of Katniss when she was younger, before love softened her and she fell quite desperately for my son. But Johanna is wicked with an axe blade, turning on her other competition in her first Final Eight after everyone had written her off. And Blight Gavin is quite the vicious jackal. I know Blight is sympathetic to our cause, and if he signs on, he might be able to persuade Johanna to tag along. Better to have a useful warrior in Blight than to have more cannon fodder like Jules Elmer, though that would have made my kids' path to the Crown a little easier, had his Reaping been allowed to stand. I feel for poor Annie in the exact same way. Had Mags' desire to volunteer been acknowledged, there would not be the concern of Finnick placing Annie as his highest priority. I still don't know if, boxed into an untenable position, Finnick won't choose to rescue Annie, even at the expense of my kids.

So whom does that leave me with? A vicious pretty boy with his half-mad lover in tow, a lovably roguish lumberjack, his shrewish district partner and two aging black people (one of whom is a cripple). It would be quite the alliance of misfits, but they all can fight, except for Annie. And even _with_ Annie, that's a third of the field – which would be more than enough to take on the Careers, and Roan and Nolan and possibly even Cecelia if Brutus's crew courted them to bulk up their numbers. The remaining third are pretty much doomed – other than who I've already sifted through above, Beetee, Elena and Evelyn Morris from 9 are all getting too old to defend themselves adequately in a fight. The last unaccounted for piece on the board is Circe Montoya, from District 5; I have no idea how she'll play, but she was a loner in her last Games. She'll be a loner in this one, and won't get drawn into combat willingly unless she gets really close to the end.

An urgent THWAP on the door makes me glance up from where I've been taking notes at my writing desk. "Miss Donner… we have less than an hour before we arrive in the Capitol. The children are rousing themselves and heading to breakfast."

I sigh sadly. "All right, Effie. I'll be right there."

"Very good, ma'am."

* * *

The roar of the Capitol crowds sounds like an earthquake.

It sounds even louder than their greeting of the tributes is in an ordinary year, but there is something off: it is more desperate somehow, in its tenor. When our train rounds the bend into the station, I am shocked to see many of the vapid citizens in tears, pressing in against the glass. When they see it is Peeta and Katniss who are aboard, the weeping and screaming becomes even more hysterical.

It's like these tragic, stupid people already know. They already know how this Quell twist is affecting us, because it is affecting _them_. I had imagined these citizens would be excited – to think of Victors themselves going back, and there can only be one who triumphs a second time.

There can only be one… I feel bile and acid starting to churn in my stomach, but I hold it in. At least one of these young people beside me will be dead in a matter of days. And the Capitolites know it, too. It never occurred to me how… attached President Snow's direct constituents would get to their champions. I've had my legions of fans here over the years, particularly from the Capitol Free Love Society, but I never thought…

As the train slows to a complete stop, I tell Katniss and Peeta what Brutus told me all those years ago before the last Quell: "Look impervious. Tough and intimidating. Like this whole thing is beneath you."

Katniss's face scarcely has to move to reach a pitch-perfect imitation of this exact expression. "That should be easy."

The minute the doors open, we are mobbed.

Everyone is pressing in, sobbing, shrieking, reaching out to touch us. A woman in a purple-blue wig draws back, screeching about how she got a lock of Peeta's hair, and at least four others tackle her like they're linebackers, also wanting the artifact. The Peacekeepers are acting the roughest I have ever seen them, here or in District 12, flinging people back with their batons and clearing a path for us, but barely. Even the white-plated officers seem jumpy.

A stretch limousine takes us to the Remake Center, and we enter to find Cinna and Portia waiting for us. Katniss lets out a strangled cry as she throws her arms around her stylist. Cinna merely rocks her, patting the top of her head, before leaning back to look her in the eyes.

"You ready to go to work?" Beside them, Portia is warmly embracing Peeta, talking to him in low tones.

Once both of my kids are whisked away, I head for the stablehouses. Amidst the hustle and bustle, I see a very familiar blond and balding man wearing purple Gamemaker robes.

"Mr. Heavensbee!" I dash over to shake his hand.

He smiles at me with empathy. "Hello, Maysilee. How are your charges?"

"Still a little in shock, I guess."

"I know," Plutarch murmurs.

I sigh. "Can't imagine the pressure the Head Gamemaker must be under this year."

"That would be me, so thank you for reminding me of all the stress on my plate."

I snap my head back up to him, blinking. "You've been promoted?"

"Yes," he chirps. "Seneca Crane was…. relieved of his duties after the disorganized ending to last year's Games." The pause conveys to me what actually happened to Plutarch's predecessor: he was murdered. "There was ordinarily going to be a press bulletin sent out months ago, just after the Reading of the Card, but power plants have been down in Five."

I am able to once again translate what Plutarch is telling me with ease: Five is in revolt right now.

"Given the unusual nature of the Quell, Miss Donner, I have tasked Chaff with spreading the word: I would like to meet with as many Victors as possible to go over some ground rules for the Quell. Tensions will be higher, and I fear the spirit of the Games may be lost if we forget how to perform our duties cleanly." He checks a gold pocketwatch from the folds of his robes. "And now I must prepare for another meeting." He flashes the timepiece out to me: "It starts at midnight."

Is it just a trick of the waning sunlight, or do my eyes detect the image of a…. mockingjay? Plutarch turns away before I can get a clearer look, and I move on.

I busy myself by heading over to the mobile phone store, and registering to purchase a cell phone with its temporary SIM card for the duration of the Games. With a little bit of time left before the tributes begin arriving to load into the chariots, I place some initial calls to sponsors. The Capitol Free Love Society is devastated that my kids are going back in, and now seem convinced that Peeta and Katniss are Haymitch and I reincarnated… even though I'm not dead (yet) and standing right here talking. The call leaves me frazzled, and I hang up.

Thankfully, I do not have to wait much longer before evening is coming on fast, and the tributes begin to arrive in the stablehouse. I pick out Katniss arriving first, in a black and glittering outfit with a headdress adorning her brown ringlets. I make my way towards her, but then I see Finnick Odair – clad in absolutely nothing but a loincloth – reach her first and the two get to talking. I can't make out what either of them are saying, and frowning, I hang back. Pretty soon, I glance over their shoulders to see Peeta striding in, clad in a tunic matching Katniss's in color, and Finnick saunters away, tossing a sugar cube between his fingers.

"Finnick…." The name is breathed like sweet music and then a beauty with flowing auburn hair flies into his arms and kisses him. Finnick kisses her back in a way I've never seen him kiss any of his many lovers. Annie purrs in his arms and pretty soon, they are quite involved. Finnick hoists Annie into the air by her thighs and pins her to their chariot, rutting against her. Growling, Annie grips Finnick's ass cheeks in her nails and gyrates back. Wanting to give them privacy, I hurry to my kids, who are just getting into their chariot. Cinna is handing something to Katniss and whispering to her.

"I'm going to find a seat. Good luck!" I tell them both.

The atmosphere along the Avenue of Tributes is even more claustrophobic than usual. The sheer number of people around me seem to carry me along with them like a wave, and I fear of being pulled under. Suddenly, a hand grabs me and maneuvers me down into a seat.

"Need a hand there, Maysilee?" I turn to see Abram Mills of 9 smiling at me, and I smile back weakly.

"Thanks."

"No, problem. Your boy and his honey doing OK?"

I sigh, picking at some lint on my shirt. "As good as can be expected. How are Nolan and Evelyn holding up?"

Abram shrugs. "I wouldn't know. Ben is mentoring them."

"Wait, I thought Ben was retired from mentoring duties…?"

"Nah, he's dipped his toe back into it, ever since he came out of retirement to mentor me. I've been loaned out to District 11; they have no mentor, you see, and neither does District 3."

That's right. Both of those districts are the worst off, compared to the rest of us. "Who's looking after District 3?"

"Jules. The Capitol was going to deploy an extra Career, but he volunteered."

 _Probably to make up for having Blight go back into the arena in his place_ , I think. Even so… "And they let an 84-year-old assume mentoring duties? Are they crazy?"

"Connor can handle Blight and Johanna on his own. And besides, Beetee and Wiress are pretty low maintenance." Several of the chariots have already pulled out onto the square, but I don't hear them, hanging on Abram's ever word. "Better an outlier who understands than a Career…" His voice trails off, as he is now staring at something behind me. "Holy shit, they're at it again… Turn around!" And he literally takes me by the shoulders and spins me front facing.

When I see what Abram is seeing, my jaw drops. Katniss and Peeta are on fire again, but this time, even though the roars of the crowd are ear-splitting, neither one of them even turns their head. They stare straight forward, faces chilled as ice, while their chariot pulls them into the City Circle. Abram and I sit and listen to Snow's speech, and when his face is displayed on the Jumbotron, I could swear the President is glaring down at my tributes.

I say goodbye to Abram after the parade and head down to meet my kids. From where everyone is congregating in the shadow of the brand-new Training Center, Seeder Crue of Eleven has drifted over to talk to Katniss, who greets her with a surprisingly warm hug. When I arrive, Chaff swaggers up.

"Katniss, Peeta, this is Chaff Habarti from District 11."

Beaming radiantly, Chaff dives in and kisses my goddaughter right on the mouth. She jerks back, startled and spluttering, and Chaff hoots, even when I smack him on the arm.

"He's quite a naughty boy," I admonish, half-jokingly, even though I'm trying not to laugh myself. Turning to me, Chaff embraces me tightly.

"Meeting with Plutarch after Training tomorrow," he hisses. "Don't worry – we're going to do something." We say goodbye to the District 11 Victors once Abram, their mentor, appears, and we head for the elevators. Katniss still seems to be trying to get the taste of Chaff off her. "These tributes are _crazy_ , Auntie!" she hisses to me.

"No, not all of them; Chaff's a good guy. I'm just sorry you had to taste the alcohol on his breath."

"Well, Peeta is certainly the better kisser." And with that, my goddaughter pulls him to her and kisses him deeply, just in time for Johanna Mason to walk in on them before the doors close.

The only living female Victor from 7 observes the pair for a moment, and Peeta and Katniss finally break apart. My goddaughter eyes the other young woman expectantly. _Can I help you?_ she silently asks.

Johanna turns away with a scoff of disgust, tossing the leafy crown off her rusty-red curls. "My stylist is the biggest idiot in the Capitol – the next Antonia!" Neither of my kids answers her, but I chuckle, getting the joke. Johanna allows me a slight smile of appreciation as we ride up to her floor. When the doors DING open on 7, she jaunts out, her hips swaying.

"Later, bitches."

We continue rocketing up to the penthouse suite, and as soon as we arrive, I dismiss both of my charges to bed.

"Set your alarms early. There are some things I want to talk to you about before training."

Both of my kids nod, and head down the hall to their rooms. When I see Peeta open his door and Katniss following him in without another thought, I raise an eyebrow, but don't do anything to stop them. They probably really need to lean on each other, especially now, but if they're making love in there…. I just hope they use protection.

Effie finally comes up about fifteen minutes later, sidetracked into conversation by some of her escort friends. She bids me goodnight, and I try to stay up and go over my notes on the Reaped Victors. Within five minutes, however, I give up and march straight off to bed.

That night, I dream of blood and pain.


	34. Now You Know

**Chapter 34: Now You Know**

"I want you guys to forget everything you think you know about the Games," I begin early the next morning, circling the kitchen island in the penthouse suite while pouring myself a mug of coffee. "Last year was child's play. This year, you're dealing with all experienced killers, no matter what shape they appear to be in."

Peeta leans forward, steepling his fingers in thought. "OK: what does that mean for us?"

I ease myself into the chair across from him. "That means you're gonna need some allies."

Even when I break it to them as gently as I can, Katniss takes this bit of advice exactly the way I feared she would: terribly. "No. I don't trust any of them. Especially not that Johanna. I don't like her…."

"Don't like her?" Peeta gawps. "We've never even _met_ her!"

Katniss fiercely glowers at him. "Now I know where that tent in your pants came from last night in the elevator."

Oh, joy. Lover's tiff. I'm out of here…. or, I would be, if I still didn't have a job to do.

"I was all hard-up for you, in case you didn't realize from what else we did last night…"

"Ok, ok, enough, let's get back on topic," I redirect my son. "No matter how you might feel about allies, _Katniss_ …." (I look at her pointedly) "… you and Peeta are starting at a distinct disadvantage. Neither of you have ever mentored in your lives, whereas most of these people have been friends, and I've been friends with them, for years. Decades, even. So, pop quiz: who do you think they will gun for first?"

"Us," Peeta understands right away, paling a little. "That cowboy from 10 already said he wants Katniss's blood."

"That just puts us higher on their kill list!" Katniss scoffs. "All but one of us are gonna be dead within a matter of days anyway."

"True," I concede. "But that doesn't mean you ignore the whole point of the Games: staying alive. For as long as you can."

"We have all we need," Katniss insists, lacing Peeta's hand through hers and smiling at him softly.

"No, you don't," I push back. "You guys may have done just fine keeping house in a cave and with four kills between you…."

"…. because Cato didn't leave enough for the rest of us…" Peeta cuts across me.

"…. But like I said: you're going to be in an arena full of Victors now. The stakes of Quarter Quells are always higher. I went in with 47 other people. You two are looking at 22 veterans who have all survived one Games. Those are almost insurmountable odds, which means you cannot go it alone."

"So you want us to pair up with your old mentor Brutus and Finnick? Is that what you're saying?" The disgust has stubbornly refused to budge from Katniss's voice.

"Not necessarily," I say. "Everyone in there is a Victor. Build your own 'Career Pack' as it were, if that's what you'd prefer. I recommend Chaff and Seeder quite highly. And Johanna's not to be ignored, or her district partner." (Katniss's face falls at this). "Nor should you count Finnick out. He's _very_ popular with his fan base, and the media. There is nothing low-class about hitching your wagon to a Victor who has a dizzying command of sponsor cash."

Peeta seems to be buying into what I am saying. Katniss appears to be opening herself up more to the idea, though she is clearly still wary. Something is still holding her back. I know she has her mission of wanting to keep Peeta alive, to ensure he wins. I wait patiently, certain that if it gnaws at her long enough, she will come to me with her concerns.

She does. "How could any of us even trust each other?"

I smile kindly. "Well, you are going to have to turn on each other eventually," I state delicately. "But even then, these Games have never been about trust. Quite the opposite, actually – it's always safer to be a little leery, even of your own allies. But most of all, the Games are about…." I let them finish the sentence.

"Staying alive," they both drone.

"Precisely. Now: I've already jotted down some notes about who might be useful to you." I push my notes to the center of the table and let them peruse it. I can see Katniss wrinkling her nose when her finger runs under Johanna's name, and the frown deepens further when she reads Chaff under my list of prospective allies. I smile at her a little. "I promise, I won't let him kiss you again. Chaff will be good."

Katniss doesn't smile back, trying to at least make a token effort to seriously consider the options I've laid out. "Hold up: why is _she_ on this list?" Craning my eyes over the top of the paper, I read Annie's name upside-down where Katniss is pointing to it.

"Because if you decide to team up with Finnick, you're going to get Annie. They're kind of a package deal."

"Why?" Katniss frowns. "Why would a Career like that go out of his way to protect a madwoman?"

"Because he's fucking that 'madwoman', as you've so callously referred to her," I snap. Katniss blinks, chastised, and even I'm surprised by myself a little bit; I can't recall ever being so short with her. More to the point, I almost never swear, and considering I've always discouraged my sons from doing so, I'm not setting a good example. I soften. "They're in love with each other," I say gently. Peeta and Katniss look at one another, obviously not aware of what most of us and likely Snow already know.

"She was the girl who won five years ago. When that dam broke," Katniss guesses, her voice having grown soft.

"And everyone else drowned." A lightbulb goes off in Peeta's head. "She's Finnick's weakness," he breathes. "She exposes him."

"Yeah, and no matter how much he might care for her, a guy like that has to know she's not going to make it. Not in her mental state. I bet when it comes down to it, he won't protect her," Katniss hypothesizes flatly.

I cock an eyebrow at her. "You'd lose that bet," I pronounce, even more emphatically. Katniss doesn't seem to believe me, so I try to put it in a way she will understand. "If either of you touches that poor girl, you'll be dead and bleeding out on some rocks or sand from a trident wound before you can say 'District 12.' As long as you keep Annie alive, you'll stay on Finnick's good side. But if it comes down to a choice between saving y'all's skins and saving hers, he _will_ choose her. Every time. She's his Peeta. Comprende?" Both my goddaughter and my son visibly gulp, but nod. From the cowed look in her stormy grey eyes, I think I am finally getting through to Katniss.

"So: Districts 4, 7 and 11, you think we should team up with them…" Katniss mulls over slowly.

"Just even one of them would do wonders in helping you. All of them, even better," I grin. "Which is why, when you get to Training, I would like for you guys to branch out and make friends with as many folks as possible, but especially the ones on that shortlist. If they're receptive, report back to me, and I'll enter into alliance negotiations with their mentors. Please note: Chaff and Seeder have a mentor out on loan from District 9, but don't let that deter you; Abram is a good guy." I check my watch. "All right. Dismissed. Have a good day." Peeta kisses me on the cheek as he rounds the table, and he and Katniss head for the elevators.

Left to my own devices, I decide to place more sponsor calls and see what dough I can rustle up for my kids. Most everyone is absolutely devastated about Katniss and Peeta, and promise to forward whatever they can. Effie entices me to watch some of Caesar and Claudius's initial coverage, in between calls, as a sort of break. Before I know it, the sun is beginning to sink towards the skyline of the city. Katniss and Peeta will be coming back up in the elevators soon.

My cell phone rings in my pocket. "Sorry, Effie, gotta take this." I flip the phone open. "Hello?"

"Howdy, little darling. Any of the sponsor fish biting?"

I freeze. "What do you want, Brutus? Aside from my boy's head on a pike."

"I was just hoping to enter into a contract with your girl…. Katniss."

I frown even harder, deeply suspicious. What the hell does Brutus want to be allies with Katniss for? I wait for my old mentor to say, but he doesn't. But I know my goddaughter, and…. "She won't go for it. She'd sooner eat dirt than pal around with your band of not so merry marauders. And you've made it _very_ clear that you want my son's blood, and Katniss won't part with him. So, if you want to recruit her that badly enough, you take on them both and you stay the _fuck_ away from my son!"

"Maysilee…."

"Whatever, Brutus. You're really that hard-up for an extra ally, tell Lupus he needs to be the one getting on the phone and entering into negotiations with me. Goodbye." I click END CALL with such force, the button nearly breaks. Watching me from over on the couch, Effie cringes.

"Why would a Career want to make allies with District 12?"

"No idea," I shrug. And if I didn't know better, I'd say that Brutus was trying to lay a trap.

It seems Brutus was just the appetizer, because suddenly, my phone is ringing off the hook. Chevy from District 6. Emrys Avery from 5. Even Ben Cooper of 9 places an order in for Katniss to join forces with Nolan. Abram places a call on behalf of Chaff, adding that Chaff told him to tell me that they want to settle a contract in person, preferably tonight, up on the roof of the Training Center. I decipher the code immediately: that's where Plutarch is holding his meeting. More calls come pouring in - it's Katniss, Katniss, Katniss, with the occasional mentor asking for alliance contracts with Peeta, as well.

By the time the couple in question arrives back up in the penthouse…. "At least half the tribute Victors want you as an ally." I study Katniss, impressed that she came out of her anti-social shell enough to make friends with the zeal of a kindergartner on her first day.

But it turns out, Katniss's sudden improvement in social skills isn't what endeared over half the field to her.

"They saw her shoot," Peeta spoons up some rice pilaf. "Actually, I saw her shoot, for the first time. I'm about to put in a formal request myself."

I know Glen and I taught her well, but… "You hit the targets so well that _Brutus_ wants you?"

Katniss's face collapses in revulsion. "But I don't want Brutus," she scoffs. "I want Annie and District 3."

"Johanna Mason calls them Nuts and Volts," Peeta contributes.

I stare at my goddaughter in abject disbelief. Beetee and Wiress weren't even on my shortlist. And how Katniss has done a complete 180 on Finnick's girlfriend, when she was just trashing the gal this morning, is beyond me. She's all gung-ho for Annie, but Finnick wasn't even mentioned. If Katniss starts taking in the weaker tributes like a cat lady adopting stray kittens, they'll all be dead within a week.

I sigh loudly, sinking into my chair and ladling up my plate with food. "Of course you do…" I grumble, not quite under my breath. "I'll put out calls to Mags and Jules Elmer from 7, and tell the others you're still making up your mind."

* * *

That night, I leave the kids on the couch watching a Capitol soap opera and steal up the back stairs to the rooftop.

I appear to be one of the last to arrive, from the crowd that is gathered. I feel even more conspicuous when many of my colleagues lower their voices or halt conversations entirely upon seeing me. Many of the Victors assembled here are ones whom I would expect to rebel, though there are a few surprises: Abram Mills is one of them, for his native District 9 harbors very strong isolationist tendencies. Lyme Tanner, an actual Career Victor, is another shocker. Most of the Victors are mentors this year. Only a few present – like Johanna Mason and Finnick Odair – are destined for the arena in the next few days.

Plutarch is in the midst of shouting at poor Jules Elmer when I enter. "That doomsday routine you pulled at the Reaping could have cost us _everything_! You're lucky the Head of the Capitol Peacekeepers is one of ours undercover; otherwise there'd be an inquiry!" Seeing me, Plutarch trails off, holds court at the head of the space and pulls out an egg-shaped device. I remember Chaff using it in a conversation we had last year, where we first hatched the Star-Crossed Lovers plot… and then the plot ran away from us beyond our wildest dreams.

"Thanks to Mr. Latier, this device will create white noise to obscure our conversation. It's mostly just an extra precaution, since I'm fairly confident this rooftop is one of the few places without recording capabilities. In the interest of caution, however, I suggest we complete these deliberations fast." He takes a deep breath before continuing:

"Aides close to the President have informed me that Snow is quite excited about holding this Quell. Obsessed with it, really – particularly with Katniss Everdeen's participation." I can feel eyes shifting over to look at me, but I don't acknowledge them. "He is so fixated on it, in fact, that his advisers worry for both his mental and physical health." Somewhere off to his left, Johanna snorts. "He has even been asking aides around him and contacting me to ask if there is a way to ensure that Katniss Everdeen will die. The best I could assure him is that the arena will be deadly. Its planning has been in the works for years. So, tributes – be ready for anything."

"Can you tell us what it is?" Bovina Martinez of 10 pipes up.

Plutarch shakes his head. "If any of the tributes show the slightest bit of preparation, we'll all get hauled in for questioning. Suffice it to say, it is deadly, though I will concede that the landscape will be quite to District 4's liking."

Water. That's a hint that at least some of the arena terrain will be covered in water. I blanche. I never taught any of my boys how to swim; there was no reason to learn. And Katniss…. I'm uncertain if even she knows how to swim.

"What's the plan, Plutarch?" Cotton Rivers from 8 calls out. "I have a tribute in tears over possibly never seeing her children again, and another who still doesn't understand what the hell is going on!"

Plutarch nods grimly. "We have a plan…. To break as many of your tributes out of the arena as possible." He takes another deep breath before dropping the proverbial bomb:

"I have been in contact with District 13, and they are providing a rescue craft."

Silence. We all lean forward, hardly daring to breathe. District 13 has been thought destroyed for decades. For them to now reappear and come to our aid...

"However… based on the arena's coordinates that I have smuggled to them, it will take a few days to get there. Once you tributes are in the inside, I will smuggle you a message in code about when to expect the rescue ship. Sadly, that means…."

"…. We have to start playing the Games as normal," Jules Elmer croaks, reclining in his wheelchair.

"And we have some new developments about that. Mr. Odair?" Plutarch cedes the floor.

Finnick steps up. "In Training today, Matthias Fletcher approached me with a proposition: he and Roan Tully of 10 are convinced that whoever kills Katniss Everdeen, that person _will_ become the Victor again. Roan even seems to think that if Katniss is killed within the opening minutes of the Games, Snow will stop the Quell itself."

"Roan's a fucking retard," Johanna scoffs. "And Matthias trying to take down Warrior Princess? That's a right laugh!"

"These assassination threats are serious," Finnick shoots Johanna a glare. "And in my opinion, they are credible, even coming from a drunk like Fletcher. I am going to pretend to work with them, and then turn on them if they get too close to Katniss."

"… Which brings me to another point," Plutarch reassumes control. "Katniss Everdeen must be kept alive. She must be one of the tributes to survive and escape."

"And Peeta," I pipe up. Everyone's heads snap to look at me, and Plutarch raises an eyebrow. My jaw sets. "You want Katniss alive, you have to defend my boy as well. She won't be able to move forward adequately if he dies."

Plutarch lets out a dramatic sigh. "Very well. Peeta Mellark will be added to the No-Kill List. If any tribute threatens the lives of the District 12 tributes, you kill them. If the arena starts to get to somebody and they threaten you, you kill them in self-defense. Our goal is to get as many people out of the arena alive as possible, but there are Victors who will get in the way of that. I'm talking, of course, about the Careers and Districts 9 and 10. Five is currently in revolt, though I don't know if Circe would stand with us; Matthias clearly isn't. You have my permission to take any of these tributes out."

"One more thing:" Beetee steps forward. "I respectfully request that I be placed on the No-Kill List alongside Ms. Everdeen and Mr. Mellark."

"Why?" Johanna sneers.

"Jo, please," Finnick groans.

"There will be something in the Cornucopia pile that I need. It is imperative to our mission that I get it and get back out of the Bloodbath alive. I'll need cover."

"I'll do it," Blight Gavin pipes up. Johanna looks ready to kill him before they even reach the arena, but Blight's volunteering does its job. She steps forward grudgingly. "Me too."

Plutarch nods in approval. "A final directive: no one is to tell Katniss and Peeta anything about the plan. They have to go in blind, otherwise they might tip Snow off." He stares at me hard when he says this, and I have no choice but to nod. "That settles it. Any other questions?" No one replies. He nods and turns off the device. "May the odds be ever in your favor." With that, we disperse.

I head back downstairs and enter the kitchenette, only to stop short when I focus in on what's playing on the television screen? I see…. me? My younger self is taking down the Career boy from 2 who threatened Haymitch's life. Quietly, I back up against the fridge and watch the re-run of my Games with my kids.

Unlike the highlights reel shown when I was on the Victors' Throne, everything is shone here: discovering the boy from 8's body, fighting the girl from 9. Then I kiss Haymitch, and he kisses me back and we actually fall back into the foresty leaves to have sex.

 _Oh no_ , I think weakly. _This is the X-rated version_.

As I observe my son watching his mother lose her virginity to a man who isn't his father – quite graphically, might I add; I can hear my own moans – the shifting of his body becomes increasingly uncomfortable. "We should fast-forward," he finally squeaks, reaching for the remote, but Katniss stops him.

"No. This is… kinda hot." Her statement makes me even queasier. Katniss is really into porn?

Haymitch and I reach the edge of the arena and comfort the boy from 5. Then, the tape shows the death of the last Career and our final battle with Beech. The axe ricochets, Beech goes down and then I tearfully cradle Haymitch as he dies. The tape ends.

Still not realizing I am there, Katniss and Peeta start excitedly talking amongst themselves. "That district partner of your mom's was really clever – he used the arena itself as a weapon! It's almost as bad as us and the berries!"

"Almost, but not quite." I speak up. Katniss and Peeta both snap their gazes to me guiltily, but I just smile sadly. And I'm right – the two cases are not at all the same. My kids' desperate stunt made them both Victor, whereas Haymitch's…. it came just too late for him.

My son is tripping over his words. "I'm sorry, Mom - Effie rented both the Quell tapes from the National Library; she thought it would be valuable for us to learn how they work..." Then something else dawns in Peeta's eyes. "My middle name…. it's Haymitch…."

I dip my head heavily. "Now you know," I murmur.

I am heartened when Peeta crosses to me and hugs me.

* * *

At dinner two evenings later, I watch as Katniss and Peeta eat their broth in silence, heads in their bowls and refusing to look at either Effie or me.

"OK, that's it: how bad was it?" I ask. I know there is something they don't want to tell me, and that it has to do with their private sessions before the Gamemakers, just completed. I turn to my son first. "Peeta, how did it go?"

"Good," he mumbles. At my pressing look, he cracks like an acorn. "I painted a picture of Rue in flowers."

I blink. OK, _not_ what I thought he was going to say…. From what I remember, Peeta wasn't even there for Rue's death.

"Well, how come you didn't paint a picture of Katniss?" Effie asks mildly.

"Why would he paint a picture of _me_ , Effie?" Katniss sniffs, annoyed.

"To show he's going to protect you…."

"Enough," I raise my voice a little, focusing back on Peeta. "What exactly did you think you were going to accomplish?"

"I…. I just wanted to hold them accountable, if only for a moment," Peeta stammers. "For killing that little girl."

"But Peeta, you can't think like that!" Effie sounds close to tears. "It's forbidden – absolutely!"

Out of the corner of my eye, Katniss is biting her bottom lip. "Katty," I say with faux calmness. "Is there anything you'd like to share with the class?"

Her head ducks into her soup bowl. "I hung an effigy of Seneca Crane."

Effie's jaw drops, as does mine. "You….. hung…. the former Head Gamemaker? As in, you threatened his life?"

"There's nothing to threaten. He's already dead," my goddaughter quips.

"And how do you know this?"

"Should I? Is it a secret? President Snow didn't seem to indicate that it was." She is holding my eyes fiercely and flatly, and I think back to the President's visit just after the Victory Tour.

"Oh, and Mom? We decided we don't want any allies," Peeta bravely announces.

Fuck. Outside of Plutarch, the other Gamemakers will want to chew both of them up and spit them out. And no allies means these two idiots might just kill off people who are risking their own lives to preserve theirs. I throw down my soupspoon angrily. "Let's go watch the other Training scores and see how badly you did before I kick a hole in the wall."

The Training Scores are fairly predictable: the Careers all get high scores. The Delacroix twins tie at 9. Enobaria gets a 10. Brutus an 11. Finnick also nets an 11. Low to medium for the rest, although Johanna gets a 9, as does Cecelia, Nolan manages an 8 and Roan pulls off a 10. I am cringing when Katniss's name appears on screen, but she and Peeta after her make Hunger Games History. Both receive unprecedented perfect scores of 12.

"Why did they do that?" Peeta's jaw is still on the floor.

"It's a signal. So the other tributes will know to target you." My teeth grind together. "Both of you, bed – now. _In separate rooms_." It's the best way I can think to punish them for their collective stupidity; I don't even care how Katniss is glaring at me before she prissily stomps down the hallway, her nose in the air. At my side, my son looks like he wants to say something, maybe issue an apology, but I turn away, giving him the silent treatment. Understanding how angry I am with him, he finally trudges off to bed.

I stay up at the kitchen counter going over the alliance contracts I had already signed: with Beetee and Wiress. With Annie. All of them for naught. I consider ripping them up, but think better of it. I then turn to the stack of alliance requests, my eyes zeroing in on the one at the top. Plucking it off the stack, I begin to fill in the boxes to make a necessary reply….


	35. Choose Dishonor, Have War

**Chapter 35: Choose Dishonor, Have War**

I stare, mouth agape, at the entrancing beauty standing before me. My goddaughter looks immaculate in a wedding dress that not even most Merchant families could afford to purchase.

My amazement at how stunning Katniss looks is overshadowed, however, by the rage I feel. She has to wear _this_ at the interview? Her bridal gown is to be her likely burial shroud?

"Cinna, what _is_ this?!" I demand. Antonia was always criticized for providing the bare minimum. Here, Cinna has created a macabre contrast with my best friend's baby girl as the flashpoint.

To his credit, Cinna appears apologetic. "President Snow insisted."

Of course. I should have known Cinna wouldn't dream of something this insensitive, even at his most creative. I gawk at him. "This was the President's call? But I thought he made it clear there wasn't to be a wedding!"

"I had already made some designs before that executive order was handed down, remember? The President asked me if I had preserved any of them, and I said Yes. He didn't leave me much of a choice." The stylist now appears truly sheepish.

My rage ebbs, and I sigh. "Of…. of course, it's not your fault," I smile at him.

Katniss lifts up her skirts and swishes them around in the mirror before her, frowning heavily. Gosh, even with a displeased expression on her face, she looks beautiful. "It seems a bit…. heavy, doesn't it, Auntie?"

"I had to make some alterations due to the lighting. You can't have purples and blues darken out the white. But does anyone on the tech crew listen to me? No…" Cinna grumbles.

"Cinna… can you give us a minute?" I ask.

"Absolutely, Miss Donner. I need to find a seat anyway." Squeezing Katniss's hand, he leaves.

My goddaughter and I are now left alone backstage at the Capitol Recital Hall. The interviews have already started; on a closed-circuit TV above our heads, Caesar Flickerman is beginning his opening spiel.

Katniss appears a little shy, lifting her eyes to mine. The loud colors of the spotlights obscure the blush that is surely staining her cheeks. "Do I look all right?"

"Were it not for the context, I'd say you were the prettiest bride in all of Panem," I declare, voice tumbling at the end to prevent it from cracking.

"I feel…." Katniss worries her bottom lip. "Entitled. Wearing this. Do all women wear dresses like this?"

"In the Capitol, I suppose." I rest a hand on her shoulder. "Back home, to most Merchant families like mine, a woman's wedding dress is a family heirloom. It's something that a mother passes down to her daughters. My mother bestowed her wedding dress on my sister, and then me after her, when I married your godfather."

"Did…. did Mother wear a white dress like this? When she Toasted the bread with Daddy?"

I smile with melancholy. "Sadly, no. Your mom and your daddy had to elope, so they wore their Reaping finest to get married in. Belle didn't have time to steal her family's wedding dress."

Katniss blinks. " _Steal_ it?"

"Your parents' wedding was very hurried and very stressful, Katniss. Scary might be another word I would use." At the stricken look on her face, I try to smile at her easily. "I'll tell you about it sometime." I promise her this even though, if my goddaughter has her way, I'll likely never get the chance.

Caesar has now launched into interviewing the Victor-tributes themselves. Gloss and Cashmere Delacroix have taken the unusual step of being interviewed together; I suppose it's a good strategy, if they want to sell themselves as a unit to sponsors. Caesar seems quite concerned with how emotional Cashmere has become.

"I'm sorry…." she apologizes, hiccupping. "I just can't stop crying."

"Neither can I," Caesar squeaks. "You've become everyone's brother and sister. I don't know how we're going to let you go!"

Gloss steps in to save his twin. "We're not going by choice. You are our family. I don't see how anyone could love us better."

As I hurry towards the house to take my seat, I observe the people around me. Many of them are sobbing just as hard as Cashmere is; a few are even keening, letting out agonized wails. I didn't think the Capitol citizens would be that upset about losing their Victors, and yet they have been, going all the way back to our arrival on the train.

And there's something else…. something that clicks as Gloss and Cashmere arrive backstage; the latter's face cooling into pure venom as she passes.

I double back, hurrying into Katniss's dressing room where Flavius and Octavia are making last-minute adjustments.

"I forgot to get a hug," I use as my excuse. As soon as my goddaughter melts into my arms, I tighten my hold on her and hiss in her ear:

"These Victors are angry, Katty. They'll say or do anything to try and stop the Games. I suggest you do the same. Pass the message onto Peeta; I trust he'll know what to do." I draw back and adjust her veil, smiling.

Katniss nods, and I finally vacate backstage to find a seat in the audience. By the time I get there, Caesar is already yuk-yukking with Brutus.

"You have been out of the arena since before the last Quell. You're a fine specimen, Mr. Barsetti, but your district was ready to send in Lupus Pagano – what made you decide to volunteer?"

Brutus chuckles. "Ah, hell, Caesar, I'm just a simple District 2 boy. I've enjoyed living it up here in the Capitol – wine, women and all that. But, I'll tell you something – the night before the Reaping, I had a dream."

"A dream?" Caesar presses.

"A dream?" I frown with skepticism.

"A dream?" Many in the crowd are whispering.

"A dream," Brutus insists. "My poor tribute from last year, Cato, came to me and told me to avenge his death. That's what I'm gonna do. The Mellark boy is mine! He's the first one I cut!" The audience gasps in shock, which quickly turns into cheers. I pale, whimpering, and when Brutus marches offstage, I can see his eyes are right on me. I stare him down as best I can.

Enobaria spends most of her interview dragging out a bit with Caesar in which she shows off her fangs and pretends to rip out his throat, like she did her final opponent in her last Games. There are way too many mentions of vampires, at least for my tastes.

"Beetee: you have contributed so much to Panem over the years. I don't know who we're going to miss more – you or your brain." Everyone hoots like seals at Caesar's joke.

Beetee fiddles with his glasses. "The Quarter Quell was written into law by men, surely it can be… unwritten."

Caesar blinks rather rapidly at Beetee's answer, which is completely unrelated to the question he was asking. His smile broadens, looking pinched and pained. "Yes… interesting concept."

Wiress is up next, but her aphasia is a drag on the proceeding, with Caesar having to throw out words to effectively participate in this game of Finish That Sentence. A hot mic sends Beetee's voice out from the wings, where he is also trying to help.

"Going back on the….." Wiress frowns through a really long pause.

"Pedestals!" Beetee calls from somewhere stage left. The audience chuckles tightly.

"… Pedestals. Scary," Wiress chirps.

"I'm sure it will be," Caesar concurs clumsily.

The audience cheers and screams in relief when Finnick swaggers on stage. He takes off a cape at the nape of his neck and casually tosses it into the audience. It lands a few feet away from me, and no less than fifteen Capitol women try and get their hands on it until it partially rips in two.

"Now, Finnick, I understand that you have a message… for somebody out there – a _special_ somebody…. can we hear it?"

Finnick takes the microphone and begins to speak with the utmost seriousness and passion. It's like he's slow-jamming the news, only ten times more erotic. "My love: you have my heart… for all eternity. And if I die in that arena….. my last thought will be of your lips."

THUMP. A massive shudder goes through the studio audience, and I cast my eyes about, frowning. Even in the darkness, I can see that roughly a hundred people around me (both women and men) have fainted because they're so certain Finnick is talking to them. But I know better. He's talking to Annie, who is now shaking like a leaf as she is brought out onstage. Finnick doesn't look at her as he passes her, off in the opposite direction, but I could swear I see a drive-by hand squeeze between the two of them.

"Annie! My, my, my, we do love our female Victors, don't we, folks? And Annie is still gorgeous! About as gorgeous as Cecelia and Johanna and Katniss! Annie: how does it feel to know that you will be going back into the arena?"

Caesar, you idiot. That was the wrong question to ask. It immediately sets Annie off, and she begins to cry and scream hysterically.

"Can't go back….. can't go back! We'll all perish in flames! Run, run for your lives before the gong goes off! Ah-huh…. Ah-huh…." Her sobs are almost hacking at this point; from where I am seated, Finnick is trying to fight past guards to get to her. A couple Peacekeepers have to rush onstage and end the interview early, literally carrying Annie from the hall.

Annie's disaster is the signal for all the other interviews to go from bad to worse. The next few are a who's-who seminar in substance abuse. A teetering Matthias Fletcher manages to say nothing beyond, "Bring down Everdeen! If we don't, we'll die…." And then throws up over everyone in the front row. Circe Montoya refuses to come out at all; the only thing we can hear is her voice, telling Caesar she can't come out because she's hiding.

"Oh! This is hide and seek, is it?" And the host makes his best attempt at finding her, which quickly turns into a dry-land rendition of Marco Polo, only this time the words are: "Circe!... Montoya!... Circe! Montoya!" for three minutes straight.

Neither Mitt Compton nor Maeve Collins can utter much of anything during their time in the spotlight – speaking of which, Maeve doesn't even deign to look in Caesar's direction, finding the spotlights above her head much more interesting. "Such….. pretty colors….."

"We've all seen a lot of tears tonight. But I see no tears in Johanna's eyes, oh no – Johanna, you are angry. Tell me why."

Johanna lets out a little, bitter laugh. "Well, hell yes, I'm angry! You know, I'm getting totally screwed over here. I was told if I won the Hunger Games, I'd live the rest of my life in peace. But now…. you want to kill me again. Well, BLEEP that! And BLEEP anyone who had any BLEEP thing to do BLEEPING do with it!" (I don't need to guess to know what curses Johanna is throwing out there, but I wish I could tell her that BLEEPs tend to elicit the opposite of her desired reaction; most of the Capitol audience is laughing at the edited-out sound bites; instead of feeling the discomfort she wants them to feel). At the very least, Caesar appears uncomfortable, quickly ushering her off with, "OK, one woman's opinion…. Who's next?"

It's Blight, and he breaks down in tears halfway through. Cecelia talks of nothing but her three little kids, causing many Capitol mothers in the audience to cry out, procure little Polaroids of their babies from their purses, and wave them in the air.

Woof wanders off the stage in the middle of his interview, and doesn't come back.

Nolan de Naro's three minutes are wasted by him deadlifting barbells. He is one of those throwbacks who is just here for another Games – as is Roan Tully, who spends _his_ three minutes showing off his Victor talent: breakdancing.

Even with the lapdogs sprinkled in here and there, the spirit of rebellion seems to be building, however! By the time we get to District 11, questions are being raised about whether or not something can be done about the situation. Seeder says that in Eleven, President Snow is viewed as omnipotent. Well, if he's omnipotent, why doesn't he change the Quell? Chaff is right on her heels, saying that Snow could change the Quell if he wanted to, but that he must figure it doesn't matter much.

By the time, my goddaughter is up, the audience is at the end of its rope. People have been weeping and collapsing and calling for change. The sight of Katniss in a bridal gown practically causes a riot.

"Katniss! Katniss…" Caesar calls for calm. "I think we're all a little disappointed – more than a little disappointed - that a certain wedding… did not take place. Am I right?"

"President Snow thought everyone would like to see how I would look in a wedding dress. Isn't it just… the most beautiful thing?" And she quite suddenly begins to twirl.

Like both years at the parade, the very cloth that covers her begins to catch fire, although once again she doesn't burn up. The smoke is rising, Katniss is spinning faster and faster, and the smoke obscures her for a moment so that she looks like a pillar of fire. When the toxins dissipate, the white bridal dress is gone. In its place is a fiercely dark dress.

And then Katniss lifts her arms, spreading her wings.

Literally spreading her wings. The audience leaps to its feet.

Caesar is frozen on the stage, reaching out a finger to touch the wings. "It's… it's like a bird! It has feathers!" He is spluttering, lost for words.

"Like a mockingjay," Katniss states proudly.

An awkward pause, and I just know that Caesar knows what the mockingjay has come to mean. Just as I have come to understand what it means. It's more than just the pin my sister gave me, and I passed down to my goddaughter. The image I thought I saw in Plutarch's pocketwatch. It has become the symbol of the rebellion roiling Panem at this very moment.

"…. Well, hats off to your stylist!" Caesar recovers. "Cinna, take a bow!"

Cinna rises and grants everyone a dramatic bow.

Then the buzzer is sounding, and Peeta is replacing Katniss, giving her a hug as they pass each other. On risers behind Caesar and my son, the other Victors are gathering in chairs, ready for the closing of the ceremony.

"Now, Peeta:" Caesar's voice is low. "A wedding. A marriage – never to be….? The President ordered that you and Katniss not get married."

"And initially, Katniss and I agreed we were too young for that. But… we got married. In secret. After the Quell announcement." Gasps of surprise go up, and I sit a little straighter in my seat. This may not be what Peeta and I rehearsed, but I trust him. He's a damn fine actor; knows just how to play the audience.

"A secret wedding? Do tell! Starting with, uh…. how?"

"Well, Caesar, remember what I said last year about Twelve having interesting superstitions? See, there's this thing we do…" And Peeta briefly describes the Toasting.

"Were your families there?"

"Our mothers would never have approved, Mrs. Everdeen in particular. Katniss's mother can be very old-fashioned. We didn't tell anyone. Because…. we want our love to be eternal. And I wouldn't have any regrets at all if…." He falters. "If it weren't…."

"What? If it weren't for what?"

"…. If it weren't for the baby."

Gasps of horror go up. My jaw drops. You clever son of a….. well, you're mine, and I certainly shouldn't be calling myself a bitch.

"What?"

"Baby?"

"Stop the Games! Stop the motherfucking Games!"

Caesar is desperately trying to make peace where none can be found as Peeta hikes up to the risers and embraces his lover. I know they've been sleeping together, but I know damn well my son would at least have the good sense to use protection. If this was any other context, I would be thrilled at the knowledge that I would be becoming a grandmother.

Instead, Peeta has used the unborn to light the fuse on a bomb the Victors have been building all night, in one last-ditch effort to save all their lives.

And then the most amazing thing happens.

The Victors start joining hands. Up and down the line, they clasp palms (and in Elena Perez's case, grasping onto Chaff's stump where his right hand should be and holding fast). The anthem is blaring through the floorboards, Caesar is screeching to make himself heard ("This is news! This is news to all of us!"). The technicians frantically cut the lights, plunging the Recital Hall into darkness and shriller screams split the air, but too late:

All of Panem has seen the Victors holding their hands aloft in one, unbroken chain.

* * *

I hang back as I watch Peeta and Katniss quietly holding each other, as they morosely stare down at the bedlam still occurring in the streets far below.

"There's no way they'll cancel. They can't." Katniss murmurs.

Looking at each other, Effie and I step forward. "Though I am still far too young to be a grandmother…." (Katniss laughs tearfully) "…. The baby bomb was a stroke of genius. Unfortunately, the Games are still on. This is….. goodbye…. For now."

Effie is wiping at her eyes, but manages to smile weakly as she holds out some boxes. "Presents." She passes one to Peeta, the other to me.

I turn it over in my hands. "What's this…..? Effie, you didn't have to get us anything…"

"I thought to myself: Katniss has her mockingjay pin. I have my hair," Effie indicates her gold curls. I open the little box. There is a piece of jewelry inside. "Gold bangle for you, and for Peeta…. the medallion that we talked about."

Peeta nods solemnly. "Thank you, Effie."

"Yeah, thanks…." I mumble, slipping the bangle on. "But…. what is it for?"

"For _unity_!" Effie stresses. "Show them we are a team. They can't just…" Her voice cracks, and Katniss calms her by taking her hand.

"Thank you," my goddaughter expresses sincerely.

Peeta steps forward and looks me in the eyes. "No matter where I go…. You will always be my mother."

It is the pebble that causes the rockslide. Bursting into tears, weeping, I sob, "And you will always be in my heart!" We embrace tightly; Katniss has to gently nudge him aside to get her own hug in.

"Remember our deal," she hisses along my earlobe. "Do whatever it takes to keep him alive." She holds my eyes. "Promise me."

I nod. I desperately want to tell her about Plutarch's plan, but all I can think to say is, "Katty… I love you."

She nods. "I know."

* * *

Through the crack in the door, I observe Katniss and Peeta sleeping together. They are both clothed, thankfully, holding each other tightly. Sadly, I close the door behind me, steal across the living quarters of the penthouse suite, and enter the elevator. I take it down to the fourth floor.

I find Halibut Shore and Mags Flanagan both still up, watching the dizzying news coverage of the fallout from the interviews. The entire Capitol is under curfew and the re-airing of the interviews has been cancelled.

"Hey, guys. I know it's late, but I need to speak to Finnick."

Halibut just points down the hall. "Annie's room. It's marked." I nod my thanks and follow his directions. Rapping on the door of Annie Cresta's room, I call out sotto voce, "Finnick? I want a word!"

For a minute, nothing happens. Then the door opens just a crack, and a bleary-eyed Finnick appears.

"Oh. Hey, Mama Maysilee."

From somewhere in the darkness behind him, I hear a sweet voice call out, "Finnick? Don't go…"

"Mama Maysilee is here, baby; I just need to speak with her for a minute. I'll be right out in the hall," Finnick assures his lover. Stealing into the hallway, he softly closes the door behind him. "What's up?"

Thinking quickly, I take off the golden bangle Effie just gave me. "I want you to have this. Katniss saw me wearing it, so she'll recognize it, if you show it to her."

Finnick's eyes narrow. "Is this about the alliance contract you completed and sent back this morning?"

" _Yes_ ," I stress. "Both Peeta and Katniss have said they don't want allies. Well, mostly Katniss; she won't listen to me. And Peeta thinks she can do no wrong, which means he _also_ won't listen to me." I sigh heavily. "I know you're going to have enough on your plate, keeping Annie alive, but…"

"I know. I know what you're asking me to do. I'll do it."

"My kids are capable of handling themselves…"

"I know they are."

"They just need some protection…"

"And they shall have it. I know the Careers are gunning for them both, and I won't let them within twenty miles of Annie – especially not Brutus. He's a prick." Finnick rubs the back of his neck. "She's _scared_ , Mama Maysilee. If you can give me assurances that your kids will help her, I promise to help them."

"Peeta will be great with Annie. And Katniss has a soft spot, once you get to know her. She won't harm Annie."

"Then that's good enough for me." His sea-green eyes search my face. "So…. allies?"

I nod, jaw hard and resolute. "Allies."


	36. Quarter Quell, Day 1

**Chapter 36: Quarter Quell, Day 1**

The Mentors' Bar is the quietest I have ever heard it. That's partially due to the fact that only 35 Victors remain who are not already dead or about to be dead, once lifted into an arena again within a matter of minutes. Plus, not every Victor still on the outside needed to come to the Capitol to mentor their friends. Of the 35, there are only about 20 of us here. I scan the room: the Career mentors have already shoved their tables together. Luster Lancaster and Song Nuo are at bat for the Delacroix twins; Lupus Pagano and Boudicca will be mentoring Brutus and Enobaria. Jules Elmer of 7 is all by himself helping the District 3 Victors, and I hope his arthritic fingers can navigate the sponsor screens; I resolve to assist him if it looks like he's struggling.

I hear a CLICK as a wheeled table connects seamlessly with mine, and I glance up to see Halibut Shore and Mags Flanagan smiling at me.

"Allies, right?" The ink is dry on the contract. I smile at Halibut in confirmation.

"Let's just hope that one of our tributes doesn't decide to go rogue and break the deal," I comment wryly.

Mags' gums are flapping, and I can't make out what she's saying, but Halibut translates easily enough. "What makes you think any of them would?"

I grimace. "My girl might. She can be a little obstinate. Though in fairness to her, how can you honor a contract when you don't even know about it?"

"What?" Halibut stares, stunned.

"Don't ask," I put up a hand, "My kids didn't want any allies…. so I took the liberty of choosing one for them."

"That's a little underhanded for you, Donner."

"I'm willing to do anything to keep my kids alive, Shore." I eye the young District 4 Victor hard. " _Anything_. Can't you say the same?" His silence speaks volumes. "That's what I thought."

The clock strikes 10 AM, and the screens above the bar go live; Luster and the other Career mentors stampede over to the counter, screaming in excitement. Halibut helps Mags hobble over; remembering Jules, I circle back to help wheel him forward.

The camera is tracking a tribute rising up through the tubes, but since it is filming from that tribute's perspective, we can't tell who it is. The glare from the sunlight is blinding, so bright that little circles of rainbow colors appear briefly in the bottom corners of the screen. Something is making the sun's rays bounce back sharper than normal. It doesn't take long for the camera to settle for us to learn why.

Yards of water stretch out from the tribute pedestals on all sides. Somewhere off to my right, I can hear both Abram Mills and Connor Murphy dropping expletives like they're acid. Next to me, Halibut and Mags sport smiles, pleased.

Plutarch warned us that an element of water would be involved in the arena, but I didn't think it would be something demanded of all the tributes. As in, they literally have to swim for it to reach the Cornucopia, set on a jagged, rocky island about forty yards ahead from this tribute's perspective.

Whoever's eyes we're looking through, it sounds like a female, and she is breathing heavily. She makes a sweep to her right: Cashmere Delacroix is on the same slab of water with her. To her left, Brutus is also scanning his surroundings and getting a read on Matthias Fletcher, who is one pedestal over from him. The District 5 drunk takes one step forward and peers over the edge at the lapping waves nearly at his feet. Between Brutus and this mystery woman, there is a spoke of rock. I frown. Who the hell designed this death trap?

A pull back to a wide shot gives us mentors a better layout of the arena. The Cornucopia seems to be at the center of the arena, shaped like a circle that isn't very big. From Cornucopia island, rocky spokes jet out across the water.

Emrys Avery quickly counts them. "A dozen spokes. Like the spokes on a wheel!"

That's it, then. From what I can gather, every rocky spoke creates a watery 'wedge' with two tribute pedestals inside it.

We are back to watching from this girl tribute's perspective as Claudius Templesmith announces, "Let the 75th Hunger Games begin! …. May the odds be ever in your favor!" This girl is positioned so that she can see directly into the mouth of the Cornucopia, but her eyes – the camera – are now darting about rather frantically. She is still gasping, panting, and the breath seems to be forming a word. A _name_ :

"Peeta…. Peeta…."

I turn white. Oh, shit. We are watching from my goddaughter's perspective. It's Katniss. And she's been placed probably deliberately between two Career tributes, one of whom is my old mentor.

Damn you, Plutarch.

"Katniss, get out of there!" I yell.

"5….. 4…. 3…. 2…. 1…." Claudius finishes the countdown.

To my surprise, the camera pitches forward and dives into the water. It bobs up towards the surface, tilting evenly as Katniss makes nice, clean strokes. I stare, shocked but relieved. I didn't know Katniss could swim. Where she could have learned or how Belley or Glen might have taught her. However it happened, she's probably one of the few Victors – other than Finnick and Annie – who _does_ know how to swim. I wonder if anyone else possesses the skill. Depending on the answer, this Quell could end very, very quickly, and too, too cleanly.

There is another stampede as we all scramble back to our tables and datapads, watching the live feeds for any sponsor money that might come trickling in. I am also obsessively watching the little screens that keep a camera constantly running on both of my kids.

Now watching from a bird's eye perspective, I observe my goddaughter reach the rocky spoke to her left and haul herself, dripping wet, onto it… just ahead of Brutus. Katniss gets to her feet before my old mentor has fully lifted himself out of the water and breaks into a run. Brutus takes a few loping steps after her but then refrains from giving chase, watching her go, snarling.

Katniss speeds up into a sprint for the horn, scanning for incoming combatants left and right. To her right, she sees Gloss Delacroix on the spoke one over from her; he must have been on the wedge on the opposite side from his sister, which means Cashmere won't be far behind. The Victors from 1 and 12 keep eyeing each other as they begin a race for the supplies.

With long, ungainly strides, Gloss is the first to make a mistake. His foot catches on a rock, and he tumbles to the earth with a shout, causing Katniss to win the race by default. She is the first to reach the horn out of the entire field, arming herself with a bow and arrows. Stringing it, she wheels around and gets a recovered Gloss in her sights, who skids to a stop. She fires, her arrow catching him in the leg. Gloss tumbles into Cashmere and Katniss's watery wedge.

A noise, or a shift in the air currents maybe, causes Katniss to spin again, another arrow in the notch as if by magic.

And its tip is pointing nearly in Finnick Odair's smug face. Halibut and Mags' tribute is grinning almost wolfishly, though there is a charm to it. "Good thing we're allies, right?" His hand not holding a trident is lifted very deliberately, prominently displaying the golden bangle on his wrist. I see Katniss recognize it, but she doesn't move.

"Where did you get that?" she demands.

"Where do you think? Your godmommy has good sense."

A frantic beeping is suddenly blaring from Katniss's little screen, and I pull up a blue holographic schematic. A blinking, red dot labeled '5' has reached the island and is rounding the horn, estimated at ten feet away from my goddaughter and dwindling.

"KATNISS!"

The grin drops from Finnick's face with the speed of a curtain going down. "Duck!" he commands, so forcefully that for once in her life, Katniss obeys without question. The trident sails over her head.

THUNK.

There is a grunt as Matthias fucking Fletcher sprawls backward to the rocks, not two feet away from my tribute. He was unarmed, but I doubt that would have stopped him much. A couple more seconds, and Katniss may very well have been the first kill of the Games.

Instead, the first cannon fires for a traitorous drunk. BOOM.

Finnick strolls over and yanks the trident out of Matthias's chest. The drunk is spluttering, gargling, choking on his own blood. "You…. rat…." he croaks at Finnick – his last words picked up on a hot mic before his eyes roll back into his head and he lies still.

"Don't trust 1 and 2 – I'll take this side, you hold them off! I'll go find Peeta and Annie!"

Peeta! As Katniss whirls with another arrow to shoot at an incoming Enobaria (the woman from 2 swan dives into the waves so that the tip misses her entirely), I snap my gaze back to my son's screen.

He has still not moved from his pedestal. Why, oh why did Dannel and I not think to teach the boys how to swim?

My Peeta is smart, though. Scanning his surroundings, he quickly realizes that only about a third of the field has even moved from the pedestals so far. Tentatively, he reaches down and brushes the lapping waves with his fingers. It's probably a wise move, especially since he watched my whole Quell and knows how important poison was to the arena. Who knows if the water is even safe to enter, if there are other risks besides drowning? Seeing Katniss, Finnick and a few of the others have safely traversed the water, however, he realizes toxins are not a factor. Still, he doesn't move, stranded like the rest of them.

"Hey, Mellark!" Peeta turns, and I curse quietly. My son has the distinct pleasure of being stuck in a water wedge with Roan Tully, the man from 10. "I did want to give my regards to your girlfriend. Since I can't have her, you'll do." And with that, he jumps.

I scream, and Peeta barely has time to get into a wrestler's defensive stance before he's caught Roan in the chest and both men are dislodged from my son's pedestal. One of them – I can't tell who – yells as they hit the water.

I flip through the available sponsor gifts frantically. Is there something I could send? A weapon? No, a parachute would take too long. As I watch in horror, Peeta manages to surface, followed by Roan. My son doesn't even know the strokes and mechanics of swimming, so he just bobs there. Luckily, Roan seems to be at just as much of a loss, though the two men do manage to master treading water by doing, as they both quickly become involved in a punch-out fistfight.

On his commentary, Claudius Templesmith seems oddly gleeful at this: "Well, folks, looks like there won't be an alliance between 10 and 12, am I right?"

If Plutarch's insane plan actually works, I will personally kill him for orienting the tributes this way.

Peeta gives as good as he gets, though, and sends Roan back with one punch, far and long enough for him to paddle clumsily back to his pedestal and attempt to remount it. A height advantage. Smart. He is almost over the lip, when Roan grabs him by the ankle and attempts to pull him back down. Gritting his teeth, Peeta holds fast.

Meanwhile, Katniss is rifling through the supplies. The Careers and one or two others are advancing back towards the island.

"Nothing but weapons!" she reports to Finnick.

"Grab what you want and let's go! And do something about _that_ , would you?" Brutus is now charging like a bull down his spoke towards my goddaughter. Face stony, Katniss notches an arrow and takes aim.

Here is where we'll really get to see how a middle-aged tribute reacts to the rigors of the arena. I have to hand it to Brutus: he's very resourceful and is already divesting himself of his belt and snapping it taut in front of his face like a shield. Katniss fires and he lifts the belt up and slightly to the left, _actually catching the tip_. A strange, purple liquid coats his face as a result, slowing him down, and Katniss growls, reloading and firing again. Brutus drops to the rocks, rolls the few feet to the water and submerges.

On the main screens above the bar, Finnick is turning onto a spoke a quarter of the way around the horn, where Annie is just arriving on the island. Pulling her to him, he kisses her sensuously, and she purrs happily… but these quickly turn into urgent squeaks and she wrenches free of his lips, pointing.

"Peeta? Where?" Finnick spins, and actually turns pale. My son is back in the water, still punching Roan Tully. "Oh no….. Oh no, no, no…. KATNISS! Annie found Peeta; he's over here!"

Katniss is at District 4's side in an instant and they run along the one rocky spoke. Katniss is stripping herself of her weapons, but Finnick stays her hand. "I'll get him."

She frowns obtusely. "I can…"

"Best not over-exert yourself. Not in your condition." And he pats her abdomen for emphasis.

Katniss clues in and lets Finnick dive gracefully into the water. She takes aim at Roan with her bow as back-up, Annie swaying on the balls of her feet, jittery. But the District 4 girl has enough of her wits about her to mildly ask, "How far along are you?"

Katniss eyes her bemusedly. "Two months," she blurts stupidly. A few people in the bar chuckle. I have to admire my goddaugter's intelligence. I know from experience that two months is not far enough along that she would be starting to show, but this will also play well to the audience.

Peeta is attempting to remount his pedestal again. Finnick is swimming frantically to the fight, now maybe six feet out. Suddenly, there is a yelp and Roan drags Peeta all the way under. Katniss freezes and drops her shooting stance, eyes wide with terror.

On Peeta's small screen, the footage is a jumble of water and bubbles and skintight tribute uniform fabric. There is a deadened sound that, if not underwater, might sound like a crack. A BOOM echoes from the screens above the bar, and I whimper. On Peeta's little screen, there is movement, and the camera from his perspective breaks the surface.

The first thing it casts on is a body floating in the water. Roan is dead.

"Peeta's alive!" Halibut calls. I slump back in my chair, overcome with relief.

We see through Peeta's eyes as Finnick swims the last few feet over to him leisurely. "Atta boy, Peeta, atta boy!" Peeta flinches back, but Finnick only smiles wider. "Relax. I'm here on your mommy's orders." And he flashes the bangle. "Need a tow?"

"Lead the way," Peeta holds out his arms trustingly, and Finnick instructs him to loop them over his chest.

"Now, let's get back to our women, shall we?"

The men swim back with long smooth strokes. Whimpering, Katniss frantically reaches out a hand towards Peeta as they draw close. Clasping her arm, Peeta hoists himself up and kisses Katniss right on the mouth. She stiffens a little in surprise, mewling, but then returns it. They break apart lovingly.

"Howdy," Peeta grins from ear-to-ear. "We have allies."

"Just as your mother intended," Katniss quips dryly.

Watching the Star-Crossed Lovers embrace has clearly made Finnick romantic. He rather dramatically gets down on one knee.

"Annie, my love, will you marry me?"

"Oh, darling, I thought you'd never ask me!" she gushes. Despite the fact that she is back in her worst nightmare, Annie seems to be almost herself as long as Finnick is near her. "But you could have chosen a more romantic setting…"

"Hey, Cassanova! Watch your back!" Peeta yells out a warning. Seeing what's coming, Annie lets out a startled scream.

Finnick turns almost disinterestedly as, with a roar, Nolan de Naro (who actually managed to swim away from the Cornucopia and reach the beach on the far side) makes a desperate lunge for him. Finnick holds him off with his trident, catching the force of Nolan's lunge and then reversing the energy of it, knocking the District 9 Victor off-balance. Twirling his trident, he advances on the attack, even as he continues making wedding plans with Annie.

"And for our honeymoon…. District 5…"

"Yes…"

"District 10…." He blocks a vicious swing of Nolan's fists, spins and thrusts the other man through.

"Yes…"

"Sunny District 9!" Finnick yanks the bloody prongs out of Nolan and almost merrily tosses the trident in the air, catching it. BOOM.

"Why not?" Annie giggles. She lets out a squeal as Finnick literally sweeps her off her feet, bridal-style.

"Madame: shall we?"

Looping her arms around his neck, Annie beams and Finnick jogs for the treeline of the jungle. My kids race after them, Peeta smirking in awe as Katniss flips him a machete she recovered from the horn.

"Even in the arena, he's a suave cad…."

"I heard that, _Lover Boy_!" The quartet disappears.

Halibut finally allows himself to sink into his chair. "Whooo! That was some good, quality television!"

Mags is sniffling, her eyes filled with tears. Despite the fact that they are together, I think she wishes that she was the one in the arena instead of Annie, to spare her. I pat her on the arm soothingly.

Back at the Cornucopia, the Careers have taken over the horn, with Brutus installing himself as Pack Leader. Gloss and Enobaria are digging through the mound like a pair of kids at a birthday party. Brutus is twitching with excitement. Something catches his eye, and my old mentor laughs.

"Oh, check it out!"

Poor Woof is stumbling down one rocky spoke at a snail's pace, just about to reach the island.

Brutus grins wickedly and snaps his fingers. Enobaria tosses him a spear. "This one's mine, and with it, the greatest kill record of all time!" With a roar, he lunges and throws, the spear's tip sailing right through Woof's neck. Woof chokes, staggering back a step so that his feet catch each other and he flails back to the rocks with a crash.

"NO!" A woman's scream, plaintive and horror-struck, makes Brutus wheel around. Cecelia is bravely charging the entire Pack. A growling Enobaria moves to intercept her, but Cecelia dives for a triplet set of chakrams, kicks some dirt up into the District 2 woman's face, and flings one.

Only Enobaria's staggering back saves her, ironically; her body shifts in such a way that the chakram grazes her bicep. Cecelia chucks another of the round blades at Brutus and he ducks; the sharp steel still manages to nick his bald head, blood gushing from a wound. Roaring, he leaps forward, jabbing with the spear and driving Cecelia back; she snarls in kind. Unable to get to Woof and with the Delacroix twins moving in as reinforcements, she turns and flees down one spoke and into the jungle.

"Let her go, let her go!" Brutus bellows as Gloss prepares to give chase. A sudden, high-pitched shout makes them all snap their gazes back: a dripping-wet Mitt Compton has leaped onto Cashmere's back like a monkey and is holding fast. Unfortunately, he has no weapon other than himself with which to attack her. Furious, Cashmere lets herself stagger back into the gunmetal of the horn and then slams Mitt against it; there is a SNAP as his spine severs and he slides off her.

Two more cannons belatedly go off.

Several hundred yards away, Johanna has succeeded in meeting up with Blight and the District 3 Victors at the top of one spoke.

"All right, camp counselors, we got all the kiddies here?" Johanna makes a headcount.

"Not without that wire!" Beetee states firmly and just as Johanna's back is turned, he begins a mad sprint for the Cornucopia.

It's a little pathetic to watch, considering he's pushing 55 and his best attempt at a sprint is only a degree or two faster than a light jog. Johanna wheels around and screams.

"IDIOT! You blundering _fool_!" Beetee is windmilling his arms now, actually picking up speed, though he's huffing and puffing. Johanna has to sprint herself in the hopes of chasing him back down before he reaches the horn. "Keep her down!" Johanna calls back over her shoulder to Blight, referring to Wiress.

Here in the bar, the Career mentors are hooting, egging Beetee on. "Keep going, Volts!"

Caesar is delighted by the "valor" of it, and helpfully decides that the tape needs to be dwindled in slow motion. Inspirational music plays, the iconic chord progressions coming from a really old, ancient American movie called Chariots of Fire. Still moving like molasses, Beetee falls to his knees before the weapons pile and begins digging through it frantically. Johanna is about fifty paces from the end of the rocky spoke. Hearing the commotion, war whoops go up as the Careers round the horn, Brutus in the lead. Grinning maniacally, Enobaria dances around him and raises a blade, plunging it down towards Beetee's back.

Johanna's eyes go huge. The entire damn thing is still moving slow-motion and she lunges forward, letting out a "No….." The blade's tip is just sinking into Beetee's back when -

"GAHHH!" Beetee screams.

"ERRRAHHH!" Enobaria howls as Johanna tackles her in a flying leap, causing both women to sprawl backwards away from Beetee, into the Careers so that the rest of them fall like dominos. The vicious woman from 7 intervened just at the last second: the blade doesn't stay lodged in Beetee's back, but it still slices a path down from between his shoulder blades.

Recovering quickly, and with Enobaria pinned under her, Johanna punches her in the face and leaps to her feet. Behind her, a weakened Beetee slaps a hand over what he is looking for: a bundle of wire and holds it up triumphantly. He manages to get to his feet, but sways dangerously.

Glancing back, Johanna sprints to him, catches him under the armpits and begins to drag him back up the spoke, cursing all the way. Beetee screams as Johanna's hand placement is causing the wound in his back to flare up; she just continues dragging him anyway.

The Careers are still down and struggling to get up. Enobaria kick-flips to her feet, blood spurting from her nose. "That little cunt….." She strides forward, but Gloss reaches to restrain her.

"NOW!" A man's deep baritone bellows and suddenly, Chaff and Seeder are bursting out of the water, pelting for the supplies.

The distraction does its work. Brutus's eyes bulge in a panic. "Box them out! Box them out! Don't let them arm themselves!"

Too late. Chaff has come up with a scythe and Seeder has a pair of blades known as sai. Standing back-to-back, the District 11 Victors engage as all four Careers swarm them.

The fight is over in seconds. With only one hand, Chaff can only manage a few blocks before Enobaria is slicing off his other hand with a broadsword and stabbing him through the gut. She bites his neck, just for effect. A little ways away from them, Brutus and Seeder are dancing around each other, shouting and swinging. Finally, my bored mentor grabs Seeder by the hair and rams her head into the lip of the Cornucopia, crushing her skull. I clap a hand to my mouth to stifle the sob.

The duel has bought Johanna enough time to get Beetee back to the beach. Seeing that Blight is otherwise engaged – Circe Montoya from 5 and Evelyn Morris from 9, in an alliance, have attacked him – she starts dragging Beetee all the faster, ignoring his cries.

Blight Gavin manages to wrest Circe's sword away from her, and smacks her in the face with its hilt. Blood spurts from her nose and she crumples to the sand. Now armed, Blight parries Evelyn's swings with a pair of tomahawk axes.

Dropping Beetee into the sand next to a cowering Wiress, Johanna sneaks around, outflanks Evelyn, and then closes in. Catching one of the older woman's wrists, Johanna twists until it breaks and with a cry, Evelyn drops one of the tomahawks.

It's all over. The District 7 Victors butcher poor Evelyn and Johanna is now armed with her weapons of choice.

Panting heavily, the beautiful District 7 girl stomps over to Beetee and sticks a finger in his face. "Never do that again, or so help me Panem, I'll kill you myself! Understand?!"

Beetee nods fearfully.

"Let's ride." And Districts 3 and 7 melt into the trees. All but forgotten, an unconscious Circe Montoya comes to a minute or two later and crawls away into the jungle.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. Three more cannons sound to signal Evelyn and District 11's deaths.

"What a bloodbath – eight dead! Wow-weeee!" Caesar whoops. "And an unusual number of alliances this early in the Games: five so far, with three still standing. Let's go check on our friends from Districts 4 and 12, shall we?"

The camera picks up on the quartet hacking through the jungle. My son is in the lead, hacking with his machete, Finnick is in the middle still carrying Annie, who clutches one of his tridents in her fists, with Katniss and her arrows bringing up the rear. She is scanning the jungle for any potential attackers, and her eyes only focus in on Peeta ahead of her just as it's too late.

"Peeta, NO!"

CRACKLE! There is a sizzling and Peeta's body is being launched back, crashing right into Finnick and Annie and sending them sprawling. Katniss is thrown to the ground too, and she crawls over to Peeta's smoking and all too still form. "Peeta? Peeta!" My goddaughter begins to panic, slapping his face and crying. "He's not breathing! Peeta!"

Finnick firmly pushes Katniss out of the way, opens Peeta's windpipe and blows against his mouth. Next moment, he is pumping his chest. An arrow halfway out of her sheath, Katniss freezes, softening and crawling forward again as she realizes that Finnick seems to be trying to _save_ Peeta, not finish him off.

"Come on…. Come on…. Come on, Peeta!" Finnick growls.

Katniss is weeping. "Please wake up…. Please, Peeta…. Peeta…."

Just when I think the cannon is about to sound for my youngest son's death…. he stirs.

Katniss bends over, whispering his name like a prayer and caressing his face, and to her, it seems like my boy is the only person in the world.

"Oh my God!"

"Careful, there's a forcefield up ahead," Peeta cracks weakly.

Katniss laughs through her tears and presses her lips to his. "You were dead! You were dead! Your heart stopped!"

"It's working now…" Peeta is still joking and I don't know whether I want to wring his neck or hug him.

"Do…. do you want to stand up?" Katniss whimpers.

"Yeah." She helps him to his feet and they cling to each other. Unnoticed by either of them, Annie is beaming knowingly, while Finnick is glancing between the two of them confusedly, trying to figure something out. If he ever thought for a moment their love wasn't real, then I don't know what he was watching last year (when my kids literally had steamy sex in a cave!) but if it takes this for the playboy to clue in… well, better late than never.

Halibut Shore points to the beads of sweat sticking to our tributes' faces. "We need to get them something cool to drink, fast! Before they all drop from dehydration."

I wheel through the sponsor supply category labeled WATER but find nothing. Anything remotely to do with liquid is out of our price range. In the stratosphere. Even a bottle of water is grayed out; I can't click on it.

I try to keep my breathing even and calm. "What do you suggest?"

In answer, Halibut spins his screen out to show me. A thin, cylindrical tool is spinning on his datapad. Then Halibut points to the trees on the coverage. "They can tap water from the bark using this. It costs a pretty sesterce, but it's still in our price range, so…."

I breathe through my nose. "Do it."

He nods and sets to work.

About five minutes later, the tinkling of chimes can be heard and a parachute lands right at the foursome's feet. Finnick lets Peeta claim it, and my boy passes the tool from hand to hand, before dealing it out to the others. At their quizzical expressions, I curse myself for not thinking to include a message explaining to them what the heck it is; I should have asked Halibut to wait a minute.

Luckily, Katniss figures it out. "It's a spile!" she hollers, and turning for the trees, she marches up to one. Selecting a rock from the jungle floor, she uses it to bury the spile into the trunk.

After a suspenseful moment, water begins to trickle out.

Finnick restrains himself just enough from lunging for the steady stream gushing out to stand aside gentlemanly. "Ladies first."

Annie smiles weakly, pecking him on the cheek and heads over to the tree. Katniss considerately lets Annie drink before her, then follows once the stunning redhead has her fill. I notice Finnick nod his head to her in thanks. Then the men slurp and guzzle. Thirst quenched, they sit down and begin to make camp.

"At least we have water. But we still need to find food. Is there anything in these woods we can hunt?" Peeta wipes at his brow.

"Only one way to find out," Finnick rests his trident over his shoulder. "Peeta, why don't we let our womenfolk get better acquainted, while you and me try and rustle something up?"

"How very misogynistic of you," Katniss glowers at him. Peeta is eyeing Finnick warily, causing the playboy to laugh.

"Peeta, if I wanted you dead, I would have just sat back and twiddled my thumbs while you expired from walking into an invisible wall. Come on, I won't hurt you."

Peeta nods. "I believe you," he allows, glancing to Katniss. Nodding once, she turns to Annie.

"You really have the most beautiful hair."

Annie blushes, touching the long, auburn strands shyly. "You think so?"

"Absolutely. But it would be better if you had it up, out of your face. Have you ever tried braiding it?" Circling Annie, Katniss begins to lovingly braid Annie's hair, prattling as she goes. "I do this for my sister all the time…"

Finnick smiles at the sight gratefully, probably realizing that what I told him was true: Katniss really does have a soft spot once you get to know her. He and Peeta step away into the trees, going hunting, while the girls continue to braid each other's hair and chatter. Katniss has never exactly been a girly-girl, but she listens as Annie chitters on.

Their men come back empty-handed, and Finnick decides they should set up camp. A still exhausted Peeta is allowed to sleep, while Finnick and Katniss take first watch. Comfortable with Peeta by her side, Annie settles down to sleep too.

I'm feeling a little drowsy myself.

"Go ahead and nod off, Maysie. Mags and I will cover you," Halibut says.

He utters something else, but I don't catch it, as I drift off.


	37. Quarter Quell, Day 2

**Chapter 37: Quarter Quell, Day 2**

The strains of the anthem awaken me.

It is several hours later, and the jungle has darkened into nightfall. The coverage on the screens above the bar shows the Districts 4 and 12 alliance, staring up as the faces of dead Victors appear in the sky.

The first to be beamed is Matthias Fletcher, that traitor from 5. That means that the Victors from Districts 1 through 4 have all survived. I don't know what Johanna and Blight did to mend that wound Beetee took, but whatever they managed, it probably took quick thinking on their part, and maybe even an assist from a sponsor. Johanna got in the way of Enobaria's attack just in time to ensure that the stab wound wasn't very deep, but it could still get infected and prove fatal, if left untreated.

Mitt Compton of 6 is next, though his district partner doesn't follow. A bit of a surprise, but a pleasant one. District 6 is usually viewed as underdogs with just as long, and even longer, odds than Twelve. Woof Barton is next. Nolan de Naro and Evelyn Morris, both of 9. Roan Tully of 10 (I smile in sadistic satisfaction). Chaff Habarti and Seeder Crue of 11.

Onscreen, Katniss bows her head into her lap, fiddling idly with the string on her bow. "Eight." She mumbles.

Finnick nods grimly. The light of the moon catches a shimmer along his irises, and I wonder if he's actually crying. If he is, it's probably over Chaff and Seeder and possibly even Woof; I don't think Finnick was all that close with any of the others.

Katniss glances over lovingly to where Peeta is still passed out, Annie a foot or two away. Finnick's lover is curled up in the fetal position and shivering a little, but not dangerously. The night temperatures are actually lukewarm at best; with the heat of the day, it must be broiling.

"Think we should wake them up?"

"Let them sleep. They've both had quite a day," Finnick is also studying Annie with adoration. Katniss notices.

"Do you think she'll be OK?" she asks, tentatively. "How is she handling it?"

The playboy shrugs. "I thought it would be easier to tell. She was petrified in the days after the Reaping; it was a struggle to calm her down. I think…. my presence is helping her to mask some of those worst emotions. Then again, the Games are still young; who knows what's out there?"

My goddaughter nods grimly, peering out into the foliage ahead of her. Suddenly, there is a shriek of plasma and lightning strikes a particularly tall tree in the distance. It takes a couple moments to realize that it isn't natural lightning; the plasma stays crackling in space, continuing to hit the tree mercilessly. A minute later, it halts.

Then the lightning strike is followed by twelve bongs. Finnick and Katniss cock their ears and listen. The sound is too high and long in tone to be a cannon; if they were cannons, we would be blasting into the Final Four, and Finnick, Peeta, Katniss and Annie would be the only ones left. When the noise fades, Finnick ponders:

"What do you suppose that was? Midnight?"

"Or the number of districts," Katniss shrugs.

A couple miles away, the Careers have also been listening to the bongs. Brutus's rock-like face is scrunched up in a frown, as he stands over a fire. Ordinarily, lighting a fire in the arena is considered a novice mistake, and often proves fatal. But with a Career Pack this strong and having taken possession of the Cornucopia, this foursome is in a formidable enough position that they can afford to do so.

"Hell is that?"

Gloss is sharpening a sword against the metal hull of the Cornucopia. "You've been on the outside too long, Barsetti."

My old mentor's frown deepens. "I'm not scared!"

"Never said you were," the younger man shrugs, lifting his blade up to the moonlight and watching it glisten. Gloss studies his reflection in the stainless steel and pops his lips once, satisfied. He moseys on over to stand next to his ally, both of them looking out to the beach in the distance and the jungle beyond. Behind them, Cashmere and Enobaria are sleeping before they have to cycle off and take watch.

"So…. eight dead," Gloss quips.

A growl rumbles deep in Brutus's throat. "I was expecting higher."

"Really? I was expecting less," Gloss cracks a grin that is almost cheery. "We are all veterans, after all."

"Not Mellark," Brutus states defiantly.

Gloss sighs and stabs his blade down into a fissure in the rocks. "You'll have your chance at him, Brutus, if he lasts long enough and you still want him that badly. But what Mellark did to Cato can't be undone, so you should stop thinking about it!" That's actually pretty sound advice.

A muscle ticks in Brutus's jaw. "I _can't_ ," he snarls. The aging Career turns away, counting off in his head. "Sixteen still live: Nuts and Volts, Odair, his plaything, woman from 5, woman from 6, Blight, Johanna…. Cecelia…." He stalls on her name for a moment before continuing. "Elena Perez. And Twelve."

"Should we start hunting in the morning?" Gloss asks, sounding like an impatient little kid.

"Districts 3 and 7 are together…"

"I bet Johanna just _loves_ that," Gloss chuckles dryly.

"Districts 4 and 12 are also grouped off," Brutus continues right over him. "That leaves Circe, Maeve, Cecelia and Elena probably all alone. We'll start with the singletons, get in some practice, then go for the other alliances."

Gloss appears skeptical at the strategy. "You don't think we can take them? District 3 is mincemeat. So is Finnick's little slut."

"They're being _protected_. By stronger tributes. Besides, I don't want to take aim at Mason, Odair and Everdeen until near the end – the Capitol needs a show, after all." Brutus smirks wickedly. "But Peeta Mellark is mine – understand?"

"Completely," Gloss concedes, though there is something leery about him.

I gulp, trying to keep my face placid, and I jump when I feel a hand on my shoulder. Abram Mills pulls up a chair, smiling wearily at me, Mags and Halibut. He probably just got off contacting Chaff and Seeder's families, and he is pretty much off the clock now that both of his tributes – though loaned out – are dead. Hell, two of his fellow Victors from 9 are dead too.

"How is Ben taking it?" I murmur softly.

Abram sighs. "Not very well. I had to help him dial the numbers for Nolan and Evelyn's families." We both look back at the old battleaxe, slumped in his seat. "When the morning comes, I'll probably take him out to one of the shops. Explore a little bit so we can both take our minds off it." There is something in Abram's eyes that I am slowly starting to recognize, but know well enough to not comment on. Abram and Ben will probably also be spending their new downtime getting ready for when everything falls apart and Plutarch's plan is set in motion. I hope they'll get out OK.

"What are you looking forward to the most when you get home, Abram?"

It's a question that tributes inside the arena ask each other quite often, particularly near the end, but since I feel sort of like a tribute again as much as my kids do, I feel I need to ask it, to take my own mind off things. In the handful of years I have known him, I had no idea that Abram grew up working in Nine's little chocolate factory (his mother owns the place). Pretty soon, the pair of us are off, swapping stories of our childhoods and the best candy-making recipes.

We are finally interrupted at about one in the morning when someone onscreen screams.

We all snap our heads up to see a downpour coating the Victors of Districts 3 and 7. At first, they think it's a harmless thunderstorm, but when Johanna throws her head back and opens her mouth wide to catch a drink on her tongue, she quickly starts to gag.

"This isn't water! It's…."

"BLOOD!" Blight screeches. With that, he and the District 3 Victors start running around like chickens with their heads cut off, Johanna futilely trying to restore order.

"Nuts, get the parachute!" Johanna shrieks, and Wiress hurriedly obeys, gathering up a bottle of what looks like ointment (it must have been sent to treat Beetee's wound), and I hurriedly glance back to where Connor Murphy and Jules Elmer – the other Victors from 7 who are in an alliance since Jules was assigned out on loan to 3 – are scrambling to try and send something new to their tributes.

Back in the arena, Blight Gavin is doubled over, and from his labored breathing, he is starting to panic. "So much blood…. So much blood…. I gotta get outta here!" And he begins to pelt desperately into the trees.

"BLIGHT!" Johanna hollers. "Come back! Come…"

CRACKLE. Blight is thrown backwards as he runs into the invisible forcefield. But unlike Peeta before him, there is nothing to be done for him. Form smoking and eyes unseeing, he dies almost instantly.

Johanna screams angrily at the sky, now left all alone with a pair of aging nerds who are more equipped for the classroom than for the arena. She grabs Beetee and none too gently hauls him to his feet. With her other, free hand, she digs her nails into Wiress's wrist (the woman from 3 is still clutching the parachute) and begins tugging both along.

"Come on, move it!" The trio staggers out of frame. A moment later, we hear the cannon for Blight.

Several miles away from this, the retort causes a dozing Katniss to jerk awake. Next to her, a dead asleep Finnick doesn't even stir. My goddaughter strings her bow, leaving it settled across her knees but still ready to raise it at a moment's notice. She doesn't know if any hostile tributes are close by, and it is good for her to be wary.

I catch Connor Murphy out of the corner of my eye stepping into one of the curtained telephone booths to call Blight's loved ones. Behind me, Jules's head is bowed, his body shaking as he weeps.

Things are pretty quiet for the next hour, and I scan lazily through my funds. A windfall poured in after my tributes gave such a good showing at the bloodbath, but this cash flow has pretty much halted in the wee hours of the morning. In the interim, Connor crosses back to Jules and they begin to study their own sponsor war chests. Cash must be coming in, after Johanna and her allies survived that…. What was that? Blood _rain_? A Gamemaker trap, most likely.

I worry my bottom lip as I try to work out the puzzle. Twelve bongs earlier in the night… Finnick guessed it might be signifying midnight. But the Gamemakers have never before been concerned about helping the tributes keep time. What's their angle?

Turning to look down at my two mini screens, with their lenses trained on my kids. Peeta is still fast asleep, while Katniss is looking curiously at something to her right. Tentatively, she reaches out a hand to touch whatever it is….

…. And as that something finally floats into frame, she regrets it instantly.

"GAHHHHHH!" Katniss reels back, her hand burning up and strange goosebumps popping up along the flesh. She staggers away from the strange mist as fast as she can. "Run! RUN! The fog is poison!"

Finnick snaps awake, lunging for Annie (who is still asleep) and scoops her up in his arms. Taking off like a gazelle through the underbrush, his lover awakens soon enough, letting out a shriek of fear. Behind them, hand in hand, Katniss and Peeta are desperately trying to keep up with Finnick's long strides. I know he is trying to keep Annie safe, but if he abandons my kids….

The mist is gaining on my son and my goddaughter. It descends on their backs, and their spines seize up. Peeta lets out a yell and sprawls forward. The noise makes Finnick turn and dash back to the District 12 tributes as they stumble forward, staying just ahead of the fog. Katniss is crying, half-dragging Peeta along with her and begging him to get up all the way on his feet.

"I can't carry him," she warbles.

Finnick makes the decision in seconds. "Annie, hold onto my neck and don't let go! Here – give him to me…" And with a little help from Katniss, he manages to get my son across his back in a fireman's lift while still cradling Annie in a bridal carry. "Come on! Keep up with me, Girl on Fire!" And Finnick takes off once again; Katniss sprinting to keep up.

It is a testament to Finnick's strength that he is literally able to haul two tributes at once. It is lucky for all of us that Annie is fairly petite, and therefore quite light, allowing Finnick to focus most of his energy on keeping Peeta over his shoulders. The District 4 playboy is able to go at a decent stride, Katniss windmilling after him. Still, the fog rolls on, bearing down on the quartet. Annie is screaming, burying her face into Finnick's chest. This is what he feared the most – this is the kind of emotion Finnick has been bracing himself to see from her ever since the Reaping. Truly, she and all the rest of them are in the nightmare now, and even in Finnick's arms, she is unable to handle it.

The fog closes in on Katniss, causing her back to lock up and she sinks to her knees again, screaming. Claudius buts in with commentary:

"The toxins in this fog do a real number on the muscle functions in the body. If enough is absorbed, it could cause rapid shutdown of critical organs…."

I squeak. What a horrible way to die….

Somehow, Katniss gets to her feet and back ahead of the fog. She is loping rather clumsily now; the muscles in her legs don't seem to want to obey her basic commands. Finally, she crashes headlong into Finnick, Annie and Peeta, sending all three of them over the edge of a steep embankment. Katniss folds like a rag doll and tumbles after them, she and her allies crashing and bumping and plummeting through the trees and down the steep incline.

All four finally land in a heap at the bottom. Annie is whimpering and squirming, struggling to get up and out from where Finnick and Peeta are lying sprawled on top of her. She finally manages to get out from under them, big, green eyes going huge as she watches the fog advance down the embankment they just went over.

But then, a couple of feet from where the four tributes lie, the fog bunches up and billows towards the heavens, blocked from going any further by some kind of invisible wall. On the other side of this barrier, my kids and the District 4 Victors are safe.

Annie crawls over to her beloved and starts shaking him. "Finnick? Finny, honey, wake up…."

Finnick groans and opens his eyes. Annie smiles at him tenderly, though it's weak. "We're safe… I think…"

Finnick rouses himself completely. "Katniss! Peeta!..."

My son rolls off Finnick's back, groaning. Half of his face is drooping at a weird angle, and his arm muscles are twitching. Behind him, Katniss is even worse off; her legs are no longer responding at all. Clearly, District 12 took the worst of this insidious Gamemaker trap.

But staying ahead of it as they did, District 4 was not affected. Finnick bends over Peeta, studying the contortion of his facial muscles.

"Toxins," he diagnoses correctly. Casting his eyes about frantically, his whole being lights up with hope when he spies a small pond close by.

"Annie, baby, help Katniss get to the water. I'll try and roll Peeta over there!"

They have to roll both of my kids the several feet to the water's edge, Katniss screaming all the way and with Annie desperately trying to shush her. Other, less friendly tributes might hear!

Finnick and Annie look at each other, and he counts down. "One…. Two…. Three…."

They roll both of my kids in, dunking them. At first, I nearly yell in horror and anger, thinking they're drowning them! But after giving it about fifteen seconds, Finnick and Annie pull my son and my goddaughter from the pond.

Peeta's face is as good as new, and he's coughing and spluttering. "The hell did you do that for?!"

"Language," Finnick and I echo each other at the same time.

"The water helps purge the toxins from your body, Peeta," Annie explains gently. "We're going to let you and Katniss lower the rest of yourselves in."

Peeta trustingly takes her word for it, and encouraging a waterlogged Katniss, they both slide in, feet-first this time. Pretty soon, they are both sighing with relief and then stand up, good as new.

There isn't any time for them to relax, though, as when Peeta goes to plug the spile back into a tree, a chittering makes Katniss glance up.

Big, orange monkeys are slithering down the branches of the trees above, hissing and eyeing the quartet hostilely. Wary, Finnick takes a large knife that Katniss dropped and hands it to Annie.

"Peeta…." Katniss keeps her voice deliberately calm.

"I'm about to put the spile in, Katniss…."

"Actually, you know what? Don't," Katniss is still talking mildly. "Walk over here slowly. Don't make a sound."

Peeta frowns, cluing in a little, though he still hasn't seen the monkeys. "OK." Spile still in hand, he backs up.

"Don't look up," Katniss throws out.

Wrong thing to say. When you tell someone not to look somewhere, chances are they still will, out of instinct. And that's what Peeta does.

And all hell breaks loose.

Peeta barely gets his machete up in time. Leaping back into the pond, the foursome form a posse ring and begin stabbing at every attacking monkey in sight. Annie yelps when one makes right for her, and by sheer luck, stabs the beast through the temple while it's still in mid-air. Finnick's trident prongs are a blur, as he's having to work overtime protecting himself as well as watching Annie's back.

Katniss quickly goes through all her arrows, bringing down monkeys, and while Peeta covers her, she quickly ducks down to pull the arrows from the beasts' bodies. As she stoops over one monkey, my goddaughter spots light filtering through a gap in the treeline. The outline of the beach a short distance away.

"Get to the beach…." She is ordering, and the others are just beginning to break formation when she looks up and screams. "PEETA!"

The monkey is nearly on him and Peeta's back is turned. Katniss won't be able to reload in time. Suddenly…..

"AHHHHHHHH!" A fifth figure emerges from the trees like magic, leaping between the monkey and my son, its arms outstretched. The figure literally embraces the monkey as the beast sinks its teeth into her neck. Katniss shoots the monkey quickly and kicks it away.

Peeta whirls around. "The morphling! Quick – help me get her!" And he and Katniss drag her body towards the beach, now in full retreat. Annie has already pelted ahead of them and she helps them get Maeve Collins out of the trees.

The group is barely clear of the foliage before Finnick brings up the rear, bursting out of the jungle and onto the sand just ahead of the advancing monkeys. He points his trident at them threateningly, baring his teeth, and the monkeys retreat, somehow prevented from going any further.

All the tension in Finnick deflates and Annie drifts over to his side. He kisses her lips chastely, and the couple turns back to see Katniss and Peeta kneeling with Maeve in the tide.

"What happened? Who is that?" Finnick frowns, stepping into the waves and drifting closer.

Peeta is cradling Maeve in the warm water, calming her and speaking soothingly.

"Look up. There – you see that? All those colors. Don't worry about anything else…. You're right here, you're with us…."

Maeve is gasping, choking, breathing heavily. Her eyes are wide and she is staring at Peeta as though he is the only thing in the world. Finally, her head lolls back and the cannon fires.

BOOM.

Sadly, Peeta sets her body adrift in the waves, watching it float out to sea. In the pink and orange hues of dawn, a spotlight still beams down from a hovercraft onto Maeve's body, a claw dipping down to pluck her corpse from the waves.

Peeta wipes at his eyes, voice bitter. "She sacrificed herself for me, and I don't even know her name."

Katniss turns to peer at him. "You think she sacrificed herself for you?"

My son shrugs. "Looks that way."

The sun rises fast, the morning moving quickly. My kids and their allies stay back by the treeline; in the distance, they can see the Cornucopia, but there is no movement from the island. Frowning, I try to pull up the blue hologram schematic of the arena, but the button won't respond. Where are the Careers? I need eyes on them.

At about 10 o'clock, there is a rumble and a scream. A giant wave crests over the tops of the trees, the wall of water rushing onto the miniature sea and partially crashing into the Cornucopia. The water spreads out around the horn, causing the tide to roll in nearly up to the treeline. Another cannon sounds.

BOOM. That's eleven dead so far, and the Games have only been on for twenty-four hours.

Annie is scanning her eyes down the length of the beach, when something catches her gaze. "Someone's coming."

Finnick hustles her and my tributes just inside the treeline. A trio of blood-red figures is stumbling down the beach, the one at the head of the group beckoning impatiently for the others to keep up.

Recognition dawns in Finnick's eyes. "Johanna? ….. JOHANNA!" He starts pelting down the beach.

"Finnick!" Johnna cackles with glee as she rushes into Finnick's arms. "Oh gods, I'd kiss you if your girlfriend wasn't standing right there!"

"Good call," Annie remarks dryly, Johanna turning in Finnick's arms to see her and stepping out of the embrace shyly.

"Hello, Annie." It is probably the softest and kindest I have ever seen the bitchy District 7 girl. Annie nods back, smiling in a friendly way. Then Johanna looks over her shoulder to see Katniss and Peeta slowing out of a jog to join them and her beautiful smile falls back into its signature scowl.

"With…. the whole motley crew."

Taking her by the shoulders, Finnick gives Johanna a little shake. "What happened?"

"Well…. I got them out. We headed deep into the jungle where I thought it was gonna be safe – that's when the rain started. I thought it was water? – it turned out to be blood. Hot…. Thick… We were stumbling around, gagging on it, blind! That's when Blight hit the forcefield…." Johanna actually chokes up. "He wasn't much, but he was from home. And he left me alone with these two."

Katniss glances over to see Wiress wandering around in aimless circles, mumbling.

"Tick-tock…. Tick-tock…."

"What's up with her?"

"She's in shock," Beetee informs her, wincing from where he is kneeling in the low tide and washing himself over the head. "Dehydration isn't helping. Do you have freshwater?"

"No, but we know a way that we can get some," Peeta informs him helpfully, kneeling down to show Beetee the spile. "We can tap some from the trees with this."

"Very intuitive, my boy!" Beetee's smile quickly turns into a grimace, and Peeta notices, reaching out with concern.

"Are you all right?"

"It's but a flesh wound," Beetee waves him away. Johanna just snorts.

"Idiot took a knife in the back making The Run. He was after that thing!" And she points contemptuously at the spool of wire that Beetee is clutching.

"Well, whatever it is, it must have been worth it," Peeta states. His voice is a little tight, and Johanna blinks, backing down. I can't help but smirk. At least we know my son won't take any of the axe girl's shit.

Wiress's aimless circling takes her right into Johanna's personal space just then, and Johanna, frustrated, knocks her down. "Just…. stop it!"

"Hey!" Katniss barks, moving in quickly. "Lay off!" The two young women briefly grapple in a bizarre catfight before Finnick and Annie pull them apart.

"What the hell? – I got them out for _you_!" Johanna hurls invective at my goddaughter as Finnick literally sweeps the District 7 Victor off her feet, marches her down to the water and proceeds to dunk her like some kind of washerwoman. It takes a few soakings, which are halted by the sound of yet another cannon.

"That's enough…. THAT'S ENOUGH!" Johanna screeches, struggling out of Finnick's grasp, eyes darting towards the sky. "Was that another cannon?"

"There've been four since early this morning," Peeta states, holding out a hand to gallantly help Johanna as she steps out of the tide. "Twelve down, twelve to go."

A few steps away from them, Katniss is tenderly trying to clean Wiress up, the older District 3 woman still babbling, "Tick-Tock….."

All at once, Katniss starts casting her eyes about, also repeating the phrase. "Tick-tock…. Tick-tock…." It clicks. "It's a clock! Wiress, you're a genius! You're a genius!" Wiress sports a gummy, triumphant grin that someone finally figured it out.

* * *

After closer inspection of the island, Finnick judges it to be deserted, and the group of seven hikes single-file to the Cornucopia.

"This entire arena is rigged like a clock, with a new danger every hour, but they only stay within their wedge. That's why the fog didn't overtake us. That's why the monkeys didn't follow us. Lightning, blood rain, fog and monkeys – those are the first four hours," Katniss states flatly.

"Wiress, you're a genius," Finnick praises as he passes her.

"And look! The tail of the horn points at twelve o'clock!" Peeta points. "Towards that big tree."

"That's where the lightning strikes," Katniss nods.

"Strikes where?" Beetee asks.

"That big tree." The bespectacled man follows her gaze, adjusting his glasses. His eyes gleam.

"Good."

Peeta is drawing a diagram in the sand with his machete, and the others gather around. Only Wiress hangs back, sitting at the water's edge with her knees up to her chest.

"So, lightning, blood rain, fog and monkeys," my son recites. "Well, it's more than we knew yesterday anyway."

I look up from the smallscreen showing my son to see that the larger TVs are picking up some movement in the water. Quicker than the lightning strike, Gloss suddenly bursts onto the rocks, puts Wiress in a chokehold and draws a bloodred smile across her throat. The poor woman only manages to make a choking noise, but it's enough. The rest of the group spins around.

In one second, Katniss has fired an arrow right into Gloss's chest. In another, Cashmere is rushing forward with some dirks in hand, making right for my goddaughter. Letting out a feral yell, Johanna shoves Katniss out of the way and brings her axe right between Cashmere's breasts.

"ERRAHHHHH!" Brutus roars like an animal as he lunges for Peeta with a spear. My son shows no fear, however, and brings down his machete across the spear's hilt to engage. Brutus ducks, trying to dance around my son to find an open flank where he can stab, but Finnick moves in to guard my boy. None of the men notice Enobaria dashing forward to take out Finnick.

No one notices except….

"NOOOOO!" The plaintive scream makes Enobaria turn, but too late: Annie bravely barrels into her, bashing the District 2 woman up against the Cornucopia and with a scream, she plunges one of her lover's tridents through Enobaria's throat. Fierce protectiveness, love, and anger flash through Annie's eyes, and for just a moment, I see the girl who dispatched four tributes before her district partner was beheaded and she went mad from the trauma.

Johanna stares. "Way to go, Cresta!"

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. The only Career left standing, Brutus looks in danger of wetting himself. The moment would be delicious if he still wasn't hell-bent on taking on six other Victors now single-handed.

Thankfully, even my old mentor knows when he's outgunned. He turns tail and runs, rounding the horn as Peeta tries to pursue. Finnick throws out an arm and halts him, Katniss and Johanna taking over the chase. Brutus is on one spoke; the girls are just about to turn onto it when….

The entire island starts to spin.

Everyone hits the deck. Weapons and crates are flying everywhere due to the centrifugal force. Cashmere's body is cast into the water. With a shout, Beetee rolls backward and Annie reaches out a hand to steady him. Peeta is gripping the rocks with all his might. A scythe flies as a dangerous projectile towards him and he ducks so that the blade spins over his body and clears it by inches. Finnick crawls towards Beetee and Annie, reaching out a free hand so that they form a chain. With Peeta joining, they all clasp hands.

Further down the island, Johanna is hanging onto Katniss for dear life, the District 7 Victor anchoring them both with her axe buried in one fissure.

"Hold on!..." Katniss's palm slips from hers. "NO!"

My goddaughter goes over into the water, sinking down and down, spinning in all directions.

Then, just as quickly as the whole mess started, it stops.

Katniss surfaces, coughing and spluttering, swimming for one spoke in time to see Peeta and several of the others racing down the rocks to meet her. My son pulls his lover from the churning waves and they kiss lightly.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

Johanna huffs with relief. "Let's just get what we need and get off the bloody island."

The half a dozen Victors regroup on the beach. "So, other than us six and Brutus, who's left?"

"No way to tell until the faces show up in the sky tonight," Peeta shrugs at Finnick's question. "Maybe Cecelia Rheys from Eight? Just a guess."

His guess turns out to be correct, as coverage briefly cuts away to Cecelia stumbling through the jungle. She looks parched and exhausted. Three wedges away, Brutus is doubled over, his spear in hand, catching his breath from losing all his allies.

Back on the beach, Johanna groans. "So what do we do? We hunt them down?"

She is interrupted by Prim screaming.

Wait…. _Prim_ screaming?...

Katniss goes white as a ghost. "PRIM!" And she takes off running through the trees, the others pelting after her and calling for her to stop. An inconsolable Katniss is scanning the canopy, panicking, trying to locate the sound. When she finally does, she shoots down a jabberjay – a bird notorious for copying human sounds; the Capitol used it as a weapon during the Dark Days.

More birds arrive, screaming like Belle and Glen and even Peeta, even though Peeta is right there and alive in the arena. Katniss runs blindly back the way that she came, finally crashing headlong into an invisible barrier where her five allies are trying to comfort her, but she can't hear what they're saying. Screaming and in tears, she curls up into the fetal position until the hour is up and the barrier falls away.

As soon as it does, Peeta takes my goddaughter in his arms and rocks her while she blubbers.

"Prim…. Prim…."

"No, she's all right…. No, they won't touch Prim…."

"Your husband's right – the whole country loves your sister. If Snow hurt her…" Johanna chuckles out a little laugh. "Forget the districts; there'd be…. riots in the damn Capitol." She throws her head to the sky. "WHOLE COUNTRY IN REBELLION? WOULDN'T WANT ANYTHING LIKE THAT!"

The Gamemakers don't even have time to edit her out. All the other Victors just stare at her. Johanna shrugs. "I'm not like the rest of you. There's no one left I love. So they can't hurt me."

The group morosely heads back to their stretch of beach, and the sun finally goes down.

Gloss. Cashmere. Enobaria. Wiress. Circe Montoya from 5. Maeve Collins from 6. Blight. Elena Perez from 10. Eight more dead. If this keeps up, a Victor will be Crowned by tomorrow evening.

But a Victor absolutely _cannot_ be crowned. Come on, Plutarch…. hurry up….

Beetee seems to be thinking along a similar wavelength. "I have a plan," he gathers everyone else on the beach. "Why isn't Brutus here on the beach? Or Cecelia?"

"Because we're here; we claimed it," Johanna snaps.

"And what would happen if we left?"

"Well…. then I guess Brutus might come back to the beach," Peeta guesses.

"Which, in just a couple of hours, will still be soaked with water from the 10 o'clock wave," Beetee finishes. "Here's what I propose: between 10:00 and midnight, we go to the Lightning Tree, and run this wire from it down to the soaked beach. When the lightning hits the tree, it will be conducted all the way here, and anyone or anything in the vicinity will be electrocuted."

 _Just like in his last Games_ , I think. Although that arena was urban and Beetee rigged a trap from things he found in the rubble.

"How do we know the wire won't just…. burn up?" Annie asks curiously.

"Because _I_ invented it, my dear," Beetee smiles. "Don't worry about the wire – it will do just what I say."

Katniss shrugs. "Why not? Even if it fails, there's no harm done. And the electricity will fry any fish in these waves, cutting that off as a food source for Brutus or Cecelia."

Finnick looks to Johanna and Annie. He won't go forward with this without either of them. Johanna sighs, raising her hand in the air. That's a vote for Yes. Everyone else's hands go up. Unanimous.

"So what can we do to help?" Peeta asks.

"Keep me alive for the next four or five hours – that would be extremely helpful," Beetee quips.

The group plans to leave just after the wave hits. In the interim, they split off to privately prepare. Katniss and Peeta walk down the beach to be alone.

"I think we need to go," Katniss whispers.

"This plan will work," Peeta states.

"I think so too – but once Brutus and Cecelia are dead, we both know what happens next…" my goddaughter's face falls. "I don't want to be the one who shoots first."

"What if they don't either? What if all of us refuse to shoot first?" My son sighs. "Maybe we could both….." He looks hopeful.

"They're not gonna make that same mistake again – you know and I know there's only one person walking out of here…. and it's gonna be one of us."

Peeta smiles knowingly. "Katniss… I don't know what kind of deals you made with my mom, but…." He pulls the medallion from around his neck. "If you die, and I live…. I'd have nothing. I could never move on and be with someone else. You need to live – for your sister and your mom."

Katniss gapes at him. "What about _your_ mom? What about you?"

Peeta smiles sadly. "Nobody needs me – not even my mom. She has two other sons and my dad."

He's lying through his teeth, as I sit here watching the whole melodramatic moment. I could never live with myself if he died. I could never get over the grief, even with my husband and two other sons by my side.

Katniss looks heartbroken, shattered. "I do," she blurts out. " _I_ need you."

And before my son can say anything else, she surges forward and kisses him. Peeta quickly gives up trying to talk Katniss out of saving him, and stealing his arms around her slim waist, cast in the light of the rising moon, he kisses her back.


	38. Know Your Enemy

**Chapter 38: Know Your Enemy**

The alliance sets off before the tide from the 10 PM wave has even receded.

They have quite a hike to the lightning tree, and only just under two hours to get there and rig their trap, so the group covers ground via a mix of power-walking and light jogging. Annie paces herself, but expends enough energy so that she doesn't lag behind; Finnick is constantly looking out for her. I have to say, the poor girl has done quite well, making it into the Final Eight and getting quite the kill in herself.

It's nearing 10:45 when the band of six finally emerges into the clearing where a tree with a truly massive trunk awaits them. Beetee studies the thing up and down – it looks as healthy as any of the other trees you might find in the woods beyond District 12. The plant clearly can't be natural, not with the amount of plasma its been hit with and yet it still looks alive and flourishing.

"Minimal to no charring. It's an impressive conductor. Let's get started." The group fans out around the trunk as the aging scientist kneels down gingerly at the base; I hope his knife wound won't impede him from what he has to do.

The rigging of the trap pretty much involves Beetee calling out orders and delegating tasks to the other five. Annie and Katniss are assigned to wound the coil of wire around and around the trunk of the tree – several times, Beetee cautions them. The unspooling of wire around such a massive trunk quickly becomes too big a task for only two young women – even with their experience of braiding each other's hair, since I suppose the objective isn't too far off, as I think back to the first day of the Games – and Johanna quickly joins them. Finnick and Peeta, meanwhile, stand guard, flanking Beetee as he takes final measurements. The older man licks his one finger and holds it up to the wind, testing the air currents, then busies himself back down by the tree's roots.

I'm surprised the Gamemakers have held back as much as they have, even with many of their mutts and traps pre-set and timed to go off at a certain hour. Even with their more remote presence built into the arena (that was probably by Plutarch's design), I find myself wondering why they haven't interfered beyond calling a halt to the scrimmage at the Cornucopia by literally spinning the structure. Maybe it's because the audience has been given plenty of death so far – two-thirds of a field of former Victors gone in two days has to be some kind of Games record. And maybe the Gamemakers are curious to see if Beetee's plan will actually work. They didn't interfere with him rigging an electrical trap in his first Games. They didn't interfere with Emrys Avery constructing fireball catapults in his arena nearly half a century ago. Gamemakers do allow for tributes to be creative in their own ideas of murder – provided those ideas aren't too clever or rebellious, and I think back to Haymitch's stunt with the forcefield in this moment. While that case is unique as it didn't help make him Victor, I know the Capitol and the Gamemakers didn't like it.

The Mentors' Bar has close to emptied out. Sometime over the course of the day, Abram left to take Ben out to the shops. I hope if – _when_ – the plan goes off (for I know this is it. Beetee's electrical trap is a cover for somehow deactivating the arena) the last District 9 Victors will find a way to book nondescript passage out of the city. Most of the other Victors who have lost both their tributes are also gone: Emrys. Chevy. Bovina. Mags and Halibut are still at my side, though. Both Jules and Connor are watching their tributes. Cotton Rivers from 8 has eyes on Cecelia. And all four Careers are still huddled together, trying to find some way to warn Brutus of the alliance's scheme – the District 1 mentors and Boudicca could have left, but with Lupus still being a relatively new mentor, they are probably trying to guide him.

Back onscreen, Beetee shakily stands, using the base of the tree to support himself, and I find myself worrying for him. Did anyone think to hold onto that parachute of ointment sponsors sent him earlier? Everything over the past day has happened so fast, I didn't think to look.

"OK. I think that does it." Beetee looks to the sky, where dark clouds are gathering. In the near distance, probably one wedge over, a weird chittering can now be heard. It's 11:00 PM. One hour to go. "We don't have much time." There is still plenty of coil remaining in the spool, which he now passes over to the three girls. "You ladies take this down to the beach. Unspool it very carefully. When you get to the water, dump whatever is left into a water wedge, then head for the tallest tree in the 1 to 2 o'clock sector; we'll meet you there."

Almost immediately, objections are raised.

"I want to go with them as a guard," Peeta insists, shifting nervously from foot to foot and eyeing my goddaughter.

"No, no, I need at least two of you to stay here and protect me," Beetee pushes back. "You and Finnick have been handling that quite nicely."

"Yeah, but do you really need three people to unwind that thing?" Finnick points out, also wary as his gaze fixates on Annie.

"It's heavy," Johanna reminds them. "It'll take two of us to carry it, and besides, a third person could stand guard as the other two go."

"Precisely," Beetee nods to Johanna, pleased.

Annie winces. "I'm not in favor of this," she mumbles, her green eyes pleading with Finnick to protest again.

Katniss likes the plan even less, her grey eyes constantly darting over to Peeta.

"Look:" Beetee is quickly running out of patience. "You all agreed to keep me alive until midnight, correct?" A heavy silence, which Johanna breaks.

"It's his plan; we all agreed to it. Should there really be a problem?"

"Excellent question." Beetee's bespectacled eyes search Katniss.

My goddaughter gulps and backs down. "No," she says quietly. "There's no problem."

Peeta looks pained. "Katniss…."

She steps forward and cuts him off with a soft kiss. Drawing away tenderly, she holds his eyes. "I'll see you at midnight." There is certainty in her voice, as she makes the vow.

"All right, let's go!" Johanna barks.

The District 7 mentor takes it upon herself to stand guard, running parallel to the other girls and letting Katniss and Annie do the heavy lifting. The pair do a good job of unspooling the thing, and make great time.

The trio is nearly at the beach when there is a rustle in the trees.

"Stop! Stop!" Johanna hisses to them, and the girls halt. "What was that?"

Caesar interjects with commentary. "I am as excited as the rest of us about this plan, folks, but it seems our lovely ladies are about to hit a little… snag."

Right as he says this, the taut line of wire suddenly slackens. The girls gasp and look up. When the camera angle changes, I see Brutus, now devoid of most of his tribute uniform, peeking up from over a mound of boulders further up the incline.

Annie turns away from the intimidating sight of the last Career Victor too late. She only just starts to scream when –

WHACK! The hilt of Johanna's axe clocks my goddaughter in the back of the head. Katniss howls with pain as she crumples to the ground and then Johanna is on her. Katniss screams again, higher-pitched this time, and under the jumble of limbs, I see a river of blood.

Annie bravely leaps on top of Johanna, beating on the other woman's back with her fists. "Stop it! Jo, stop it!"

Growling, Johanna throws her off. Katniss is trying to sit up, but Johanna shoves her back into the dirt, bending low over her ear. "Stay down!"

The hot mic barely picks up the whisper.

Annie has leapt back to her feet. Up above, a perplexed Brutus – sensing blood and weakness – is clambering over the boulders and making his way down to the girls. Johanna and Annie look at each other, and the former nods.

"Take care of Lard-Ass!" she orders cryptically. Squeaking, Annie nods. Then she turns and runs for her life. Brutus takes the bait, and with a roar, he gives chase, not even bothering to check and see how Katniss fares.

Glancing furtively about, Johanna bends over my goddaughter, nods once, then takes off into the jungle. Her one fist is clenched, though I can't tell why.

Back at the Lightning Tree, the other men hear Brutus's bellow. Several hundred yards away, a weak and starving Cecelia hears it too.

Peeta frowns. "What was that?"

Then, there's a scream – female. Finnick's face is now as translucent as the full moon.

"ANNIE!" He springs like a deer out of the clearing, yelling Annie's name.

Watching his ally run away, Peeta panics. "KATNISS!" He too, takes flight, leaving poor Beetee in the lurch and with no one to guard him.

Not two minutes later, Annie appears back in the clearing, panting and calling for Finnick.

"Finnick! Finn –" She stops, seeing Beetee. "Beetee, where's Finnick?"

The older man doesn't answer her, and Annie goes pale; it is starting to dawn on her what she has just done. She has led Brutus right to them.

Or so she thinks. Annie is so fast, and the trees so thick, that my old mentor quickly loses sight of her. He is wandering aimlessly through the midnight to one o'clock sector further south.

Back even farther below him, Katniss is just coming to. Her right arm is saturated with her own blood and she staggers to her feet woozily. But she's alive. I don't know for how much longer, though, if she loses much more blood.

"Peeta…." she is whispering his name like it is some kind of rosary. "Peeta…." Her voice quickly raises to a shout. "PEETA!"

"KATNISS? WHERE ARE YOU?!"

It's a male's voice, but it isn't Peeta's. Grey eyes bulging, Katniss sinks back to her knees and takes cover under an outcropping. Seconds later, coming to pause just feet above her, Finnick peers into the darkness.

"Katniss? Johanna? Annie?" He whispers the names of each of the girls, cracking with emotion on the last one. He turns and flees back into the gloom.

I quickly come to understand what my goddaughter is thinking, and if it weren't for what we are attempting to do, if these Games were going to end any other way, she would be right: she has viewed Johanna's attacking her as a betrayal. A sign that the alliance is breaking.

And if that's so (which it isn't), she can therefore no longer trust Finnick. I want to curse. This is why I should have given her at least a clue, that all was not as it seems. Leaving her and my son ignorant of the plan may have lended to some good, quality, suspenseful television (my nerves are absolutely shot), Plutarch may have his reasons, but frankly, those reasons suck. If we don't do something soon, we'll have no tributes left to save.

When the coast seems clear, Katniss crawls out from her hiding place, and actually manages a passable, clumsy jog back up the hill. Just as it must have been for Annie, the slackened coil of wire actually serves as a pathway to find her way back to the Lightning Tree. I am reminded of a story Danny told me once, about a brave warrior fighting a monster in a labyrinth; he used a spool of golden thread - a gift from a beautiful princess - to mark his path and then find his way back out. It is probably sheer dumb luck, therefore, that Brutus didn't think to look down at his feet as he tried to pursue the mad girl from Four; he had a literal path guiding him back to prey, and he _still_ got lost. I fight the urge to snicker.

Any smirk I might have sported is quickly gone in the next second, though. Just as Katniss gets back to the Lightning Tree, she watches as Beetee _attacks_ Annie. Annie yelps and tries to nudge him off her.

"Beetee, have you gone crazy?"

Several tables over, the Career mentors are howling with laughter, as they watch a 50-something man still weak from a stab wound and a madwoman try to fight to the death. They're a pretty even match, thank the State, and with pathetic results, as Annie is clearly reluctant to battle her own ally. This, despite the fact that Annie could kill Beetee if she really wanted to; she did, after all, manage to kill Enobaria. My goddaughter is staring at the sight, open-mouthed, but does nothing to break it up.

"Give them both a body bag! YEAHHHHH!" Luster Lancaster cackles like a wet-behind-the-ears Peacekeeper cadet. He sounds drunk.

This is when things start to get scary. Annie trips on a tree root and when Beetee looks like he's going to fall forward with her, she shoves him – harder than she intended to. Beetee goes flying backwards – right into the forcefield.

There's a CRACKLE sound for the third time since the Games started and Beetee's body bounces off, sprawling in the grass. Landing hard on her back, Annie stares, horrified at what she has just done.

"BEETEE!"

Oddly, though, no cannon sounds. Clearly thinking back to the similar accident with Peeta, Katniss drifts over and reaches out a hand. Palm to Beetee's neck, she fingers for a pulse. She must find one, and indeed, though it's slight, the camera clearly picks up the rise and fall of Beetee's chest. He's been knocked out.

Nearby, Finnick hears Annie screaming Beetee's name and follows the sound back into the clearing. He pulls up short when he sees the fiasco, Katniss still kneeling over their older friend.

"What did you _do_?" he cries, causing Katniss to glance up. Finnick looks over to Annie, who sniffles and gives a shake of her head.

My goddaughter is now busy studying the sharp, pointy stick that Beetee used to attack Annie. It has part of the coil wrapped around it.

That's when I realize it. How Beetee intended to do it. How the plan was going to go off. And I also realize: his entire attack was _faked_. It would have looked strange to the Gamemakers, if the alliance really was breaking, for Annie to come back to the Lightning Tree, find Beetee, and both of them just stand there.

As she studies the pointy stick, I can see the pieces are clicking into place for Katniss too. Finnick takes a few steps forward; hearing him approach, Katniss whirls around, the stick hefted over her head like a javelin. Finnick stops dead.

"Katniss…. I'm not your enemy. Know your enemy."

My goddaughter falters, hesitating. Finnick tries again.

"Remember who the real enemy is."

Katniss's eyes widen with deeper understanding. I nearly want to applaud Finnick. I wish I'd told her something like that. The storm clouds rumble overhead; the clock on my table reads a few minutes to midnight. Katniss shrugs her bow off her shoulders and bends over the pointy stick, setting to work.

"KATNISS!" Several miles downhill, Peeta is still galloping through the woods, screaming his lover's name. "Katniss! Kat…." He sways to a stop in one clearing, taking in the broad and muscular shoulders. The man's back is to him.

"Lost your little toy…. eh, Mellark?" Brutus turns slowly, the moonlight catching on his feral, excited sneer.

Peeta gulps, but drops into a defensive stance, machete poised and at the ready. "Brutus."

"I gotta say, you know how to game the system. Cheat your way to the Crown last year, and this time, bullshit your way into the Final Eight," Brutus chuckles, taking one step to the side. My son mirrors him, and they circle each other like wolves. "You've had a longer road then you ever deserved, kid, but it ends here." My old mentor takes one look up at the angry sky. "Hope you're watching, little darling."

"Leave my mother out of this!" Peeta snaps sharply.

Brutus blinks at this – evidently, he didn't think my son knew what the old pet name means – and Peeta just laughs. "Oh, yeah, I know all about you. My mom's told me stories." There is something very chilling, very ugly, about the sound of my son's mirth, and I don't like it at all. The arena is getting to him. I don't want Plutarch to have to save Brutus's worthless skin, but I also don't want him and Peeta to fight and risk my old mentor killing my baby boy. Katniss is working as fast as she can, but can she move faster than it will take for these two men who mean so much to me – for very different reasons – to come to blows?

Brutus seems to have been caught flat-footed that Peeta is aware of who he is to me. "What has she told you?"

"You mentored her. You were her friend… once." Brutus now halts in his circling completely. Seemingly encouraged, Peeta lowers his machete just a fraction. "Look: I'm sorry that you lost Cato…."

Brutus growls and makes a threatening move towards my son and Peeta leaps back, lifting his blade. "…. but everyone's lost people, too, to these Games."

" _You_ haven't!" Brutus bellows at him. "You got your life and the girl, Mellark! And you didn't deserve it! What have you lost?!"

"My innocence," Peeta states simply. It's an answer so obvious, and yet so profound, it nearly takes my breath away. "Haven't we all, those of us who managed to become Victor? Don't you see, Brutus? Aside from a dinky little Crown and a glory that's all fake, what do we really win? Who really wins these Games? I'll tell you – it's not you, or me, it's _them_." And he points at the sky, towards the Gamemakers invisible. Maybe even points the finger at the Capitol itself. The bar is now so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. My son continues:

"Before the Games last year, I told Katniss something and I've tried to live by it ever since. You wanna know what I said?"

Brutus doesn't answer, doesn't move. Perhaps he really wants to know.

"I said I wanted to be more than just a piece in their Games. Because being made to kill in an arena? – it takes away everything you are." He points at my mentor. "You might think it gives you something, Brutus – a rush, a purpose…. but it doesn't. It really doesn't. There has to be something more than just killing people."

There is a long, pregnant pause. On the other miniscreen on my table, Katniss is stringing her bow, pointing it at the sky. Finnick bounds forward.

"Katniss, get away from that tree!"

Leveling his spear, Brutus jeers at my boy. "Nice speech, kid. But do you think anyone who matters heard it?"

"I did."

The answer comes unexpectedly. Behind the men, a dirty and wild Cecelia Rheys holds one of her chakrams aloft. "Peeta – run!"

Brutus roars and lunges for my son. Cecelia yells something and moves to intercept him. "NO!" Peeta throws out the word as he moves in too, to protect _Cecelia_.

There is a plasmic roar, which drowns out Katniss's scream as she fires her arrow – now cloaked in the coil of wire – to the heavens.

The lightning strikes the tree. Katniss, Finnick, Annie and a still unconscious Beetee are all thrown back several yards. Fifty paces west of them, Johanna hears the noise and sprints towards it – I hope she will make it in time to help….

The earth in the arena quakes, flinging Peeta, Brutus and Cecelia all apart before they can sink their weapons into each other.

Then all the screens go black.

Luster Lancaster is frantically clicking the remote. "What the fuck...? - Get it back! Get the Games back!" he hollers. Lupus and Song Nuo quickly swarm him, trying to help.

"We're trying…"

I don't have the heart to tell him: show's over. Game Over.

All at once, the door to the bar crashes in and white-plated Peacekeepers swarm inside, guns blazing as they open fire.

I yelp and duck under my table as the sound of bullets whizz and ricochet over my head. What a really nasty way to go… I just hope Plutarch can get as many out as he can….

"MAYSIE! It's falling! Let's go!" Connor Murphy is at my side, tugging me, pointing towards an open back door. We run for it in a crouch, Connor throwing his weight behind Jules Elmer's wheelchair and pushing it towards the exit. Reaching the door, I wrench it open and take cover behind it as Jules' chair picks up speed. The eldest Victor is protesting all the way.

"No, leave me, boy – _leave me_!"

Across the room, a Peacekeeper sees us attempting to escape and levels his gun. Glancing over his shoulder, Jules sees it.

"Connor, DUCK!"

Connor ducks his head down behind the chair, curling himself into a ball as he starts ramming the chair towards the open door, watching his back.

But the Peacekeeper doesn't shoot at Connor's back. He was aiming for his head, except the bullet now whizzes harmlessly over Connor….

…. And pierces Jules through the temple. The elderly man slumps forward, a strangely peaceful smile on his face.

"NO!" Connor and I both scream. I dive for Connor, grab him and launch us both through the open door. With me no longer there to prop it open, the door starts to swing closed on a timer, and we barely make it through before it shuts. I hear another dull thud from the other side as Jules and his chair topple into the closed door, serving as a kind of barricade. It might buy us some time, as will the other Victors, who I saw bravely engaging the Peacekeepers in battle as a last stand.

"Come on!" Connor seizes my wrist and pulls me along down the flight of stairs, into the bowels of the building. "I know where to go!"

We hit the ground floor and burst outside into an alleyway.

"Keep your head down!" Connor orders. We run in a crouch to the end of the alley and emerge onto a main thoroughfare just outside the Games Headquarters.

Pandemonium reigns. Capitolites are all around us screaming, staggering, loping like wounded animals and calling for help.

Connor guides us both through the mass of people before we duck into a sidestreet. Hand-in-hand, we sprint towards Snow-knows-what, until we finally reach a tucked-away landing platform. A hovercraft, the ramp down, its rotors spinning fast, awaits us.

At the end of the ramp, a familiar face is calling to us with encouragement, waving us towards him.

"Come on!" Proximo, my old trainer, beckons.

I nearly fall into his arms in relief, sobbing. "Peeta? Katniss? Where are Peeta and Katniss?!"

"Plutarch and the rescue craft have gone ahead; they'll be all right! Now we need to go!" Proximo hustles Connor and I up the ramp. Inside the belly of the plane, Proximo hollers to the pilot. "Let's blow this popsicle stand!"

"Wait!" Connor cries. "Cotton!"

Behind us, Cotton Rivers is crouched on the landing platform, watching as a squadron of Peacekeepers enters the sidestreet and rushes for us. "Go!" She hollers. "I got them!"

Connor blinks back tears, but affirms to the pilot to take off. We lift into the air just ahead of the white-plated guards bursting onto the landing platform, speeding away as their little guns attempt to shoot us down.

Just before the place disappears from my sight – hopefully forever – I watch as Cotton lets out a rebel yell, raises a fistful of explosives to the sky, and presses the button.

KABOOM.

The landing platform and everyone on it goes up in flames.

* * *

It takes us many hours to reach District 13.

When we land, in a nondescript wasteland covered with smoke and ash, we are spirited underground to the district's facilities, where they have been living in frugal (and apparently drab) comfort for decades.

I turn to the officer in charge – a dark-skinned woman named Paylor originally from District 8 (she led the rebel forces there), and demand to be taken to the hangar bay.

"I need to know if the craft captained by Plutarch Heavensbee has arrived yet. I need to know my kids are safe."

Paylor acquiesces, and saying goodbye to Proximo, Connor and I are taken down to the hangar bay.

It is controlled chaos when we arrive there.

Plutarch's balding head is bobbing on down the gangway of his hovercraft when we get there. Several District 13 medics wheel a gurney past him down the ramp, on which Beetee is hooked up to oxygen. Behind them, a weary Finnick staggers off the plane, cradling Annie in his arms. Shouts follow the District 4 couple, and several guards wielding tazers and stun guns surround a bellowing and restrained Brutus, subdued in electro-chains – Capitol technology, I note, impressed. Hovering just beyond the imprisoned Career, Cecelia Rheys is worrying her bottom lip. My old mentor's gaze locks onto mine, and he glowers with pure hatred at me. I scowl right back. He should be grateful Plutarch resolved to get as many tributes out alive as he could, no matter what side they were on.

Last of all come Johanna and Katniss. The girls are hand-in-hand, Johanna speaking unusually tenderly to my goddaughter, who has a tourniquet bandage running up almost the entire length of her right arm. When Katniss sees me, she starts forward as if she wants to throw her arms around me, but then stops. A look of betrayal comes over her face, and she turns sadly away, allowing a nurse to attend to her.

Johanna has no such reservations about sprinting for Connor and leaping into his arms, the two friends holding each other and breaking down sobbing once Connor tells her about Jules. Leaving them be, I race over to Plutarch, even while I keep my worried eyes on Katniss. If something is bothering her, Peeta will calm her down. He's probably about to be dismissed off the plane any moment; maybe the doctors are still bandaging him up.

"Plutarch!" I hug him. "You did it!"

He grins, tired by smugly triumphant. "We sure did!"

"Peeta's being looked after?"

Plutarch's smile dips noticeably, and he suddenly finds it a struggle to look me in the eye. My own smile dims, as I search his face. Hot, angry, red…. I don't know how to describe what is boiling up inside me. "Plutarch?" I press warningly.

He finally dares to look me in the face. "A Capitol craft swooped in before we could get him. He was the last one. Cecelia had come to before him, and she dragged Brutus away; he was still knocked out. I'm sorry."

I can hardly believe my ears. He is 7 out of 8… and the one Victor he failed to get was my own son, who is probably just as important to the rebellion as Katniss is. My goddaughter will go crazy with worry and grief when she finds out, if she doesn't know already. Plutarch took enough time to extract a traitorous Career, but he couldn't move fast enough to get my son.

A howl like none I have ever uttered bubbles up from me, and my hand flies out. And Plutarch is yelping, covering his face, now marred by scratch marks from my nails. I can hear Connor and Johanna yelling, their arms containing me and lifting me and carrying me away. I thrash and kick and scream, and pretty soon, my wild eyes take in Proximo, joining in the attempt to calm me down.

But I cannot be comforted. My son – my youngest son – is a prisoner of the Capitol.

And once Snow finds out what his mother did, I don't know if I will ever get my child back this time.


	39. Normal Reshuffled

**Chapter 39: Normal Reshuffled**

It is so quiet, I can hear the crunch of gravel underfoot as my boots carry me through District 12.

Or, what's left of it.

Recalling what District 13 looks like aboveground from when I arrived at the rebel stronghold two weeks ago, I would be forgiven for an inability to make a distinction between the two. Just a little bit ahead of me, in a gray tunic and pants, Katniss is also wandering about in a daze as we take in our former home.

Cartwright's Post Office. Donner Train Station. The Bakery. Mama and Daddy's candy shop…. Even the Justice Building. All of it, razed. Flattened. Blasted to smithereens.

Chillingly, the only structures left standing, the only sign that there ever was civilization here, are the empty mansions of the Village on Victors' Hill. I have to belief that such little mercy was intentional. A warning shot to anyone who dared try and come back here. Like me. Like Katniss. Snow is still watching us.

I am entering past the gates of Victors' Village now. Katniss has sunk to her knees beside the center fountain, head in her arms. Her body is still, but I know she is sobbing, though it's quiet.

A screech of static directly in my ear makes me hiss with discomfort.

"Maysilee can you tell your…..?!" Plutarch's volume plummets several octaves as his tone also abruptly shifts. "… _wonderful_ goddaughter to please turn her earpiece back on?"

"I'll try," I respond noncommittally before turning right around and clicking my own earpiece off. I should have done it a while ago. Now I know how Daddy has felt in his older age, when he had to use that hearing aid – medical equipment I paid for out of my Victor's pension. I am glad Plutarch is learning how to be a little nicer when giving out orders. He's been flinging them out ever since we arrived in Thirteen, much to the consternation of the District's high military command, who _actually_ give the orders. The turncoat Gamemaker was probably absorbed into Security Council meetings and given the highest clearance just to get him to shut the fuck up.

And, of course, Plutarch has taken it upon himself to be the official handler of the Mockingjay. That would be the rebel title conferred upon my strong-willed goddaughter. I fought him hard on this appointment – I am her mentor. I am her _godmother_ , for Panem's sake; I held her right after she was born! I look after her, so if you want to share, Plutarch, I'd be happy to, I told him. Heavensbee seemed displeased with this, but it was either that or nothing, so he acquiesced.

Even then, I don't how much of my counsel Katniss will take. My best friend's child hasn't spoken to me since we arrived in Thirteen. The whole admission that the Games were rigged to stop early, that nearly half of the tribute Victors were in on keeping her and Peeta alive and breaking them out of the arena, came to light on the hovercraft ride to Thirteen, courtesy of Finnick, Johanna and Cecelia. Annie provided small tidbits of information when and where she could, but really, the finer details of the plan were just as unknown to her as they were to Katniss and Peeta. Not that any of that matters. In Katniss's mind, she believes I betrayed her, by keeping her ignorant. I think she suspects that I knew more about the rebel plot than I actually did. Truth be told, I knew about as little as Annie did. Although I was aware of the broad brushstrokes of Beetee's machinations, the bigger picture didn't become clear to me until it unfolded. I learned much of the details _as it was happening_ , in the arena on live television. What I knew and didn't know is a microcosmic reflection of just how not too deeply involved I was in the rebel cause as a whole. Sure, I traded intelligence with Chaff (a sharp jolt courses through me as I think of him) when there wasn't much risk involved. Sure, I attended Plutarch's meeting that night on the roof. But I was always a tentative rebel. Not because I don't want to see the Capitol fall as much as anybody, but because my proximity to Capitol government, even back here at home, was too strong. Being related to the Mayor of Twelve through marriage, I didn't want to bring anything down on Merle, or Kaydilyn, or Madge. I had – still have - a vested interest in protecting my family, so I always stayed on the periphery of rebel plans.

My family…. are they buried under these piles of ashes? Are their bones scattered here? The commanders in Thirteen had received reports that the Capitol sent in hovercraft and dropped firebombs after the Quell was cut short. A tsunami of grief had coursed through me, only to be replaced by a glimmer of hope soon after. There are rumors – still unconfirmed – that a subset of District 12 managed to run for the fence and make it to the forest beyond.

I turn my head to glance out at the wilderness in the distance. The weapons of mass destruction that were dropped here managed to burn away much of the greenery of the beautiful trees that were here. Only the white shells of trunks remain. But even without their flora and fauna, the woods in Twelve are vast, stretching for hundreds of miles. Is it possible that a group of survivors are hidden in there, living off what little is left somehow? Cressida, a sweet-faced woman who heads Thirteen's digital operations, is pretty convinced that a group of District 12 survivors will eventually make their way across the no-man's land to Thirteen. Others, like Pollux, the sweet and shy Avox (those are people who have had their tongues cut out as punishment for various crimes committed against the Capitol) who works under Cressida as a cameraman, believe that even if a group of survivors did outrun the bombs and reached the woods, they won't ever survive, or be found alive. He and Cressida (who understands Pollux's sign language) say there is historical precedent, pointing to an old historical legend from over a thousand years ago called The Lost Colony.

But I have to hold out hope, right? After all, rebellions are built on hope! I have to believe that my family – my husband, my sons, my sister and brother-in-law, my niece, even my father (though he is up there in years) – managed to get out.

Katniss is still strewn prostrate along the fountain, weeping. She is probably mourning for Peeta, her lost love. She hasn't spoken of him since she learned he was left behind, and anytime someone has mentioned his name, she has taken to either bursting into tears, fleeing the room, or both. Believe me, I am just as mad and wracked with grief. What are Snow and his minions doing to him, back in the Capitol? Is he even _in_ the Capitol? Is he alive?

I shake my head to clear it. I can't let the darkest thoughts of my imagination carry me away. I have a job to do. Leaving Katniss by the fountain, but making sure that I periodically check out the window to make sure she is all right, I cautiously enter my old mansion.

Everything is just as I left it the day of the Reaping for the Quell. The day I kissed my husband goodbye after we spent most of the night before making hot, raw love. My trusty naginata and blowpipe are both still perfectly balanced on their racks mounted on the far wall. I take them both down with care, and strap them to my belt. In the war that District 13's President says is sure to come, everyone will need to be ready and armed. And although I haven't been in combat, fought with any kind of weapon, for years, I resolve that I will do my part.

I move on to the second floor. The whole mansion is eerily quiet, save for my footfalls. I find myself softly calling for my loved ones:

"Danny?... Jonadab?... Rye?" No answer.

I enter Danny's and my bedroom. The bed is perfectly made. Opening the armoire, I find that all my clothes are still here, though most of them are Capitol fashions that I've never worn in my life, and mean nothing to me. I am starting to close the wardrobe in disgust, when one hangar, cloaked in a garment bag, catches my eye.

Pulling it out and setting it gingerly on the bed, I unzip the front. Mother's wedding dress. My wedding dress, and also the one Kaydilyn wore to her Toasting. I have been hoping to someday pass it down to Madge, my niece, since I never had any daughters of my own. Zipping the thing back up, I fold the garment bag over my arm. Madge _did_ survive the District 12 bombing, and she _will_ arrive safely in District 13. And when she does, I will give it to her. Kaydilyn had never let on if Madge was seeing anyone here, but perhaps that will change. Perhaps she will meet somebody.

I turn back to my bedside table, and open the top drawer. Inside, I find my Victor's Crown and gold medal, both covered with a decent layer of dust. I pluck them both out and blowing on them carefully, clear the cobwebs away.

At that moment, the sunlight filtering in from the window catches on something that was hidden beneath these trinkets. A _silver_ medal, the shine of it having faded with time.

My azure orbs glistening with tears, I pick it up. Haymitch's medal, the one that I gave to his mother and then later took off the body of Rhona Abernathy oh so long ago. Sniffling, I stuff both medals and my old Crown into the folds of my sweatshirt. We aren't allowed much in the way of personal belongings in District 13, but I refuse to part with any of these. Besides, the odds of me ever coming back to my homeland again are slim to none, so I might as well take what matters now.

Oh, wait! Thinking back to lying here in this bed, with my husband after we made love, I cast my eyes over to Danny's nightstand, where he always kept that picture of me on our wedding day…. only to find that the frame is gone.

I frown, a chill overtaking me, and suddenly the house's silence is way too spooky. I turn my earpiece back on, just to feel like I am hearing _something_.

Just in time, too, for a second later, Plutarch's voice comes over the line.

"Maysilee? I have eyes on the Mockingjay. Get her and get out of there."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, but we are being recalled back to base, on orders from the President. A batch of refugees has just arrived and been granted asylum….. their leader says they are from Twelve."

Heart pounding, I dash out of my mansion, run to the fountain and shake my goddaughter, who seems to have cried herself into a light doze.

"Katty? We have to go."

"What's happened?"

"I'll explain on the way." These are probably the most words she and I have spoken to each other in two weeks.

The hovercraft ride back to base is brisk, Plutarch willing the pilot to go as fast as he is comfortable. When Katniss hears that a band of District 12 survivors are believed to have crossed the no-man's land, she begins shaking with hope and excitement, but otherwise doesn't say another word to me. We pass the rest of the trip in awkward silence.

When we arrive in the hangar bay, I am floored to see the sheer size of the crowd. Of people with rucksacks, the clothes on their backs and little else, waiting to be processed and assigned apartments.

Cressida and Pollux dash up to us. "They're from Twelve, all right," the digital media coordinator whispers to us, breathless. "This crazy hunter guy managed to lead out about 800 people."

Even as the number thrills me, my face still goes as ashen as the wasteland from which we just left. That means only about a tenth of District 12's total population managed to survive. Even so… "Can we absorb that many?"

"Coin seems to think so."

"Hey, Brainless. Candyland. Welcome back." Johanna Mason comes jogging up, staring around us to take in the new arrivals. She's probably just come from visiting Beetee – the only Victor from the Quell still in the hospital. He is on the mend slowly, but he is as astonishingly alert as ever, and has been cheered by visits on rotation from Johanna, Katniss, Finnick and Annie. Annie still feels really bad for the accident she caused; Beetee's forgiveness of her only lifted her spirits marginally. I remind myself that I will have to drop by the District 3 man's sickbed soon.

Johanna is still staring around us to the District 12 refugees, her fierce gaze fixated on one person in particular. "Who in the name of Panem is _that_?"

A tall, strapping man is at the front of the group, talking in low tones to Proximo, the man seated behind the check-in desk. Just off my old trainer's shoulder stands Paylor, the general from Eight.

My goddaughter follows Johanna's sightline. "Oh, that's Gale."

"Gale? I like Gale." Johanna's mouth is twitching up in approval as she appraises the handsome miner's son. "You know him?"

"Vaguely," Katniss mumbles. "He sometimes haunted the same hunting grounds where Auntie used to teach me. He's an acquaintance."

" _Acquaintance_?" Johanna's big, brown eyes nearly pop. "He looks like he could be your cousin!"

Katniss smiles softly. "Most Seam folk look like they could be related." My goddaughter is starting to notice how Johanna still can't stop gawping at Clay Hawthorne's oldest son. The tiny smile creases into a smirk. "Would you like me to introduce you? I don't know him that well, but…"

"I can introduce myself, thanks." And Johanna marches forward. We watch her approach Gale just as he is turning away from the desk, stick out a hand and introduce herself. Gale seems taken aback to be in the presence of such a famous Victor, but soon the pair is lost in conversation while the rest of Gale's people get registered. Taking in the sight, I can't help but also smirk. I lean over to murmur in Katniss's ear:

"If we can make an honest woman of Johanna Mason, we can do anything!"

"Like winning this war?" my goddaughter quips.

"Especially that."

"And…. getting Peeta back?"

My breath hitches, but I manage to get out: "You can bet your hard-earned sesterce we will."

She and I approach the front-desk now, where it seems like Proximo and Paylor are starting to become a little overwhelmed.

"Need a hand?" I offer.

"I think… we've got it, Maysie, thank you," Proximo's ruggedly handsome face sends a twinkling smile in my direction. "Next, please."

The preceding miner stands aside and Katniss and I both scream in happy relief.

"Belley!"

"Mother!"

We both fling ourselves into Belle and Primrose's arms, sobbing. Over my best friend's shoulder, I watch Gale pause in his deep conversation with Johanna to take in the reunion and nod, satisfied. ' _Thank you_ ,' I mouth to him.

When we all finally break apart, Primrose and Katniss begin chittering to each other the way that sisters do. "Gale was amazing, Katty! He got us all out! And look – I even saved the cat!" And she holds up the ugliest cat I have ever seen. I laugh at how Katniss's face falls – I've heard stories of Buttercup, or as my goddaughter refers to it, "The Devil Cat." In the next second, Katniss manages a tight grin, for she would never dare to hurt Primrose's feelings. "That's _awesome_!"

I'm not so sure. I may not have anything against the cat the way that Katniss does, but I have learned that there are no pets this deep underground. Coin might order that Primrose turn the cat loose in the world above to fend for itself, which would be like telling Prim that Katniss was going back into the Games yet again. Apparently, for reasons that Katniss cannot fathom, her little sister _adores_ this cat.

Meanwhile, Belle has stepped forward to register with Proximo. "Belle Everdeen. I have my two daughters with me – Katniss and Primrose."

"Everdeen….." Proximo is making notation on the paperwork, then pauses, glancing up to study my best friend more closely. An intrigued, admiring smile comes over his aging face. "So…. you're the mother of the little lady who started this revolution."

Belle blinks, but then straightens herself. Carries herself a little taller. "Yes, I am," she beams proudly. Slightly overhearing them, Katniss glances over her shoulder, apparently in shock that her mother would be so pleased with her. I know she and Belley didn't agree on Katniss's volunteering to go into the Games, which Katniss took to mean that Belle would have preferred to see her youngest die. Nothing could be further from the truth, of course, but their relationship has been a little strained since Katniss first came home from the arena.

Proximo is still studying Belle with a winning smile. "Are, um…. are you hoping to move in with your daughter? Katniss already has an apartment."

"If that's possible," Belle floats.

"Of course! I'll see to it straightaway! That would be three young ladies, yes?"

"And a cat," Belle supplies.

Proximo's smile dips ever so slightly, as he glances around Belle to take in Buttercup. The Devil Cat hisses at him. Proximo purses his lips diplomatically. "Well…." he states mildly. "I'm not so sure about the cat….but I will take it up with housing authorities and see what I can do."

Belle beams gratefully. "You're very kind."

Proximo's smile only broadens, if it is possible. "What are you hoping to do while in Thirteen, Mrs. Everdeen?"

"I'm a Healer. I can work in the hospital, if the need is still there. My youngest, Primrose, has also been trained, she can help me."

"But I'm leading the Medic's Unit!" Proximo cries, thrilled. "Part-time, of course. Madame, you are the answer to a prayer! We are still in desperate need of Healers."

My best friend flushes pink at the praise. "Well…. thank you, um, Mr….?" She glances to me.

"Oh," I introduce them. "Belle, this is Proximo, my former coach in the Training Center, back when I was a tribute. Proximo, my best friend, Belle Everdeen."

The pair shake hands.

"Belle…." Proximo tries it out on his tongue. "A lovely name…."

Belle smiles softly. "I've always thought so."

Behind the two, someone clears their throat. The line is backing up. Paylor tapes Proximo on the shoulder.

"Proximo, we still need to process the others…"

He ignores her completely, standing from the desk and gallantly holding out his arm. "May I direct you to the medical registration office, Belle?"

Belle beams. "I'd be delighted, Mr. Proximo." She takes his arm. "Excuse us, Maysilee. Primrose!" she calls over her shoulder. "Come along, dearest!" Prim scampers after her mother, and Paylor is left in the lurch to take over refugee registration. As the group departs, I hear Proximo telling my best friend, "And then after we get you and your daughter submitted for basic training, I'd be happy to point the way to Katniss's apartment…."

Katniss and I stare after them, my goddaughter frowning in deep befuddlement. "What the Snow was that?"

I have the tiniest suspicion I know…. but I'm uncertain whether to be elated, or wary like Katniss. Before I can answer her, though, I hear a shout:

"Maysie! Maysilee!"

I spin about and my mouth drops open. For there, squirming out of line, Jonadab and Rye tumbling after him, is my husband. He looks banged up, but his smile is untarnished.

I clap a hand over my mouth to hold in the happy sob and I fly into his arms. Mashing his face in my hands, I slam my lips against his in a heated kiss and keep them there. Tongues soon push through until Danny and I are making out in the middle of the hangar bay. Somewhere far, far away, I hear a person wolf-whistle; it's probably Johanna. I lift a middle finger in the general direction of the sound, and am answered with a snort. Yup. Definitely Johanna. If she's really that flabbergasted, though, she can go stick her tongue down Gale Hawthorne's throat and see how it feels. My husband is alive and back in my arms, with me, and I can kiss him however I damn well please.

When we break apart at last, I giggle at how Jonadab, Rye and Katniss (and a few other strangers as well) are all staring at us, open-mouthed. I don't think I've ever been this publicly passionate, but I am too happy to care. I throw my arms around Danny's neck, reaching out to bring my other sons into the group hug.

When we finally disentangle ourselves, Danny is buoyant. "Well, all that's missing is Peeta. Where is he anyway?" His smile lifts over my shoulder as he directs the question mostly at Katniss, figuring if he isn't with her at this moment, he must be somewhere close by. In response, Katniss whimpers and flees from the bay in tears.

My husband's face falls. "Trouble in paradise?"

 _No, darling, it's worse than that_ , I think. I gently lace my fingers through his. "We need to talk." And I tell him about Peeta's capture.

Danny looks anguished. Then his jaw clenches. "Don't worry…." He strokes my cheek. "We'll get him back."

"Of course we will," I smile weakly. "Now: where is my sister? And Merle and Madge?"

Now it seems it is Danny's turn to be gentle with me. "We need to talk," he throws my words back to me.

And I listen, horrorstruck, as Danny proceeds to tell me how Merle, Kaydilyn and Madge were forcibly removed from the Square after the Quell halted. Apparently, Merle had been trying to protect his constituents from advancing Peacekeepers.

"They were executed, right there on the steps of the Justice Building," Danny sniffles. "I saw it happen. Everything was chaos. The boys and I managed to get out of the Square before the firebombs hit, and we made it back to the Village and packed what we could. Out the window, we saw the Hawthorne boy leading people to the fence, and we decided to follow them. We got out just ahead of…." He can't finish, and I wrap him in a hug. We hold each other as we sob. My fierce sister….. no doubt she also tried to stop the guards as she witnessed the revolution she had always wanted to take hold at last. My niece, Madge…. now who will get to wear the family wedding dress? Merle….. All he ever wanted was to make District 12 happy and safe. I also learn that my father also perished in the blaze, as did an elderly Barnabus Foley, Belle's father. Her older brother is also not among the survivors.

Stepping out of the embrace, I wipe at my eyes with my sleeve. "Go…. Go register with Paylor at the check-in desk. Tell them you're married to me, and they'll assign you and the boys to my apartment. I…. I need to go…. see someone…." And I hurry away, my sympathetic husband staring after me.

* * *

The jailhouse where prisoners of war are held is at one of the lowest levels of District 13's hive of facilities. Though not the lowest, it is still pretty far down there on the lifts, and when I step out, the lady manning the front desk has almost albino skin, it is so pale after seeing such little sunlight.

"I'm here to see a prisoner," I state.

"Name?" the secretary drones.

"Soldier Maysilee Donner."

"No, the _prisoner's_ name."

"Oh…. Brutus Barsetti."

The secretary nods, and selects a keycard from the rows of them on the wall behind her. "We only allow one visitor at a time," she tells me. "Some lady is already in there with him. She's been by every day."

 _I wonder who that could be?_ ….. I think sarcastically.

The cell door clangs and creaks open, so that the light that shines in casts on a chained prisoner and a young woman wrapped in a close embrace. Their lips are fused together, the woman's arms draped about Brutus's thick neck. When the couple sees they have company, Cecelia pulls out of the kiss with a startled yip.

I blink, though I shouldn't be so surprised. I haven't seen Cecelia since a day or two after we arrived in Thirteen, when the general from her district, Paylor, took her aside and told her I'm so very sorry, ma'am, but District 8 was bombed and we lost your husband and three children in the fighting. The young mother was utterly distraught and disappeared into the bowels of the district after that. I should have guessed she would be here, visiting the prisoner…. and the only living connection to her old life. After all, only Cecelia's youngest son, Milo, biologically belonged to her husband, Bert. Aaron, her middle child, was actually sired by Brutus, apparently in a night of passion while Finnick Odair was first marching his way to the Victor's Crown. Cecelia's second pregnancy, and the identity of the father, caused quite a scandal in Victor circles. Cora Shutter, her mentor, had been furious, even going so far as to attack Brutus at the opening of the 66th Games a year later. Brutus and Cecelia's on-again, off-again relationship from those days faded after that, trickling to a stop completely after Cecelia got married. Apparently, now that she's widowed, it's back on again.

As for Brutus himself, he looks like he's being well-fed. He is being confined round the clock, and I have heard that Coin and her advisers don't trust him. That sounds a little counterproductive, as it will only ensure that Brutus doesn't trust _them_.

Having interrupted them, I glance down at the floor. "I…. I can come back later…"

"That's all right, little darling…"

"Don't call me that!" The snap in my voice echoes through the cell. Cecelia drops down from her tiptoes, disengaging from Brutus's arms. She is biting her lip, and glancing awkwardly between her lover and his former protégé.

"I'll…. I'll wait outside, Brutey." She quickly pecks his cheek and shuffles out of the cell, head bowed. When the door clangs behind us, I glance back at Brutus, allowing myself the most miniscule of smirks.

"Brutey?"

"Not another word," Brutus growls. "You don't want to be called by your nickname, the least you can do is not refer to me by mine. That's for her only."

"Fair enough," I nod. I step closer, slowly circling him. He is devoid of a shirt, the muscles still lean and strong. His arms are lashed above his head by electro-coils suspended from the ceiling. I point to the technology with interest. "Do they hurt?"

"Only if I try to wiggle my wrists out of them or pull too hard in a certain direction," Brutus grunts. A pause, and then, "The first time I tried to hold Cecelia, they shocked me until I got knocked out. It's hella embarrassing to drop unconscious like an idiot when you're trying to make out with a sexy girl."

I tamp down a chuckle. "I'm sure," I note wryly. Another long silence reigns.

"So…." Brutus rumbles. "How's life for you, Maysie? How's the Freaky Bird?"

I scowl. "She's called the Mockingjay, and my goddaughter is as well as can be expected, considering your side has her true love hostage…"

"Splendid. I hope they treat him as shittily as your new rebel friends are putting me up here…."

I step right into his personal space and close my hand around his windpipe. "How dare you even _speak_ of my son! I'd be happier if Plutarch had saved him and not dilly-dallied rescuing your ungrateful ass! Keep running your mouth like that, and I'll vouch for a prisoner exchange. I'd rather Peeta was here than you!"

"Oh, joy. Do me a favor – when you get on that, can you insist that Cecelia goes with me?"

I bark out a bitter laugh. "So you can have free sex on your list of privileges? Fuck off!" I shake my head in disgust… and maybe also a bit of sadness. "When did you become… one of them?" I stare at him, truly wanting to know. "You're just another lackey for Snow and his goons…"

"You think I give a _damn_ about Snow?" Brutus yells. "I hate the smelly motherfucker!"

I snort. "I find that hard to believe." A brief beat, and then: "You certainly hated my son, though Panem knows why."

"Oh, come off it, Maysilee – you _know_ why!"

"And what are you going to say next? 'Sorry, little darling, it's nothing personal.' Brutus, you threatened my _son_! You were ready to kill him too!"

"Damn right I was," my old mentor snarls.

"Why? Because he supposedly cheated you and Cato out of a win? You were the first to believe in Glory With Honor! About sportsmanship – though, frankly, we're talking about a fight to the death, so what the fuck does sportsmanship even _mean_?" My voice softens into something more gentle, though it is no less earnest. "You've lost tributes before – granted, it never was at the hands of any of mine until Peeta and Katniss came along; usually, my kids died in the Bloodbath. More often than not, I lost _my_ tributes at the hands of _yours_ , and you didn't see me hold a grudge! What is it about Cato that's gotten you so….. twisted? Bent of revenge?..."

"HE WAS MY SON!"

Dead silence in the jail cell. I stagger back in shock. I knew that Brutus had had Aaron with Cecelia, but another son….

"Cecelia isn't his mother, is she?"

"No, of course not! Come on, Maysilee – think! He would have been raised in Eight if that were true! Cato… Cato was born after a fling I had with a lady who ran the quarries. We never saw each other again after that one night, though she mailed me a picture when he was born. I later heard she enrolled him in Boudicca's Academy the second he was old enough." A tear actually slides down his cheek. "I was so proud when he was handpicked for the Games his last year, and that I was assigned to mentor him. Those five days we had…." He lets out a shaky breath. "They were some of the best I've had. And I was so sure after he won that we would get to spend so much time together in the Victors' Village. But…."

My expression collapses in sympathy and maybe a little guilt, tears also swimming in my eyes. Not only did I have my own child conscripted into the Games, but come to find out, Brutus had as well. And they had to face each other. "Oh, Brutus…. I'm sorry…"

"Don't," he cuts me off, eyes burning. "Don't you dare come to me with your apologies. I want to hear it from _him_." He spits out the word.

I soften. "He did tell you he was sorry. Just before the forcefield blew."

"Yeah, but did he _mean_ it?" Brutus grumbles bitterly.

I gape. "Peeta is the most sincere person I know. Of course he meant it." Slowly, I take his hand; Brutus starts to pull away, but doesn't. "Did…. Did Cato know?"

Something akin to a sob frees itself from Brutus's throat. Squeezing his eyes shut tight, he shakes his head. "No….. I was going to tell him the night of the final interviews."

I step back, head bowed. "I'm sorry," I mumble. Even though he said he didn't want it, he doesn't answer me. I turn sadly away for the door, to go out and readmit Cecelia.

"Goodbye, Brutus."


	40. Negotiate With Terrorists?

**Chapter 40: Negotiate With Terrorists?**

The only aspect of District 13 civilian life that cannot be described as quiet, orderly, efficient or frugal are mealtimes in the common mess hall.

With the hundreds of thousands of people who live here belowground, it is impossible to feed everyone all at once. So it is accomplished in shifts. Just like everything else about a typical day here.

In the morning, the alarm goes off in Danny's and my apartment (Rye and Jonadab are bunking together in a flat of their own) at a certain time. You are then expected to stick your arm into a socket in the wall, where your daily schedule is then tattooed onto your skin. It's not really "tattooed" onto your skin – the ink fades off by the end of the day, in time for the whole process to start all over again – but it's the best way that I can describe it.

Breakfast is always at 8:00 AM sharp for my cohort. Thankfully, that includes my husband, my two eldest sons, my best friend and her kids. Johanna, Finnick and Annie are also part of our breakfast group. Oh, Proximo is also among our circle of friends; he and Belle have become close as colleagues over these past two months. They always walk with each other to the medical ward, after the morning meal, with Primrose – now a young medic in training – scampering to keep up. The medical ward is where these three spend much of their day, broken up only by lunch and the evening meal before bed.

On this particular morning, Belle and Proximo are debating the finer mechanics of morphling withdrawal. A robust contingent of refugees from District 6 managed to reach the other side of the no-man's land about a week and a half ago. They were robust in numbers, but not much else – very few of them were in any shape to fight, and a majority was addled with morphling addiction, on account of the drug prices on the black market being so cheap there. I only ever had experience watching two of their Victors – Maeve Collins and Mitt Compton – struggle with their dependence on the stuff.

"…. But how do you know that a patient won't become dependent on the minor dose you administer to them as you try to wean them into withdrawal? That's the key!" Proximo is telling my best friend, who is watching him almost in rapture. Based on the advice I received from him in the Training Center – advice that I later always encouraged my tributes, including Katniss and….. Peeta, to seek out – I've always known that Proximo has a very deep and scientific understanding of the human body, especially in how it can react to certain phenomena. I wonder if Proximo and Beetee – who has since been released from the ward and is now working in Weapons Development – have ever met; if they have, I imagine the conversations would last hours.

Next to me, I feel my husband nudge my shoulder. I glance to him, my eyes briefly dipping to check the tattooed schedule peeking out from under his shirtsleeve. Apparently, he has to report for duty in the kitchens at 8:30. Danny's talents as a baker have not gone unnoticed or unappreciated. Quality food outside of the usual rations can be hard to come by, and President Coin is apparently always looking for ways to better our nutrition, provided that it is affordable. Focusing on him, I can see him smirking into his bowl of oatmeal. "I've seen that look before." His expression is dry and almost whimsical with amusement, as I follow his gaze to where it is resting on Belle. She has hardly touched her food, for all the time she is devoting to Proximo and his lecture that she must just find fascinating. As I watch, she nods eagerly and then jumps in with another point, which Proximo takes with a smile full of admiration. Seated between the two of them, Primrose is trying to eat but also glancing between the two adults curiously, trying to figure something out.

I turn back to my husband. "Where?" But Danny just shakes his head, though it is accompanied with a wink. Tuning out Belle and Proximo's deep conversation, I check my own schedule. The morning hours are the same as they have always been – MOCKINGJAY TRAINING. For the past couple of weeks, this has entailed Katniss and I walking to the Digital Studios and filming what Cressida refers to as 'propos' – abbreviated from 'propaganda videos' that will someday soon hopefully be hacked into regular, mandatory Capitol programming to advance the rebel cause. I understand that Beetee is currently working on how to game the Capitol's broadcast system. Then she and I are to report to HIGH COMMAND just before the lunch meal for a meeting with the President.

I've been grateful to have my schedule so closely synchronized with that of my goddaughter's. It's allowed me to keep a careful eye on her. Much of her crying over Peeta has stopped, to be replaced by a gloomy and quiet melancholy. She tends to eat just enough, what she knows she can keep down, and has been tending to her duties as the Mockingjay like a good and well-oiled robot. She very rarely speaks outside of being directly addressed. Yup, she is definitely in mourning. I am hoping that as time goes on, and we fall into a rhythm with these propos, her enthusiasm will grow, and she will see that the rebels are the best mechanism through which we can recover Peeta.

So far, District 13 spies have come up with scant intelligence regarding the fate of my son. They know he is alive, and that he is being held with other high-profile prisoners in the former Training Center. When I was told this, I had talked Proximo into taking some time out of his medic shift to come and meet with President Coin and offer a presentation explaining why he thought a rescue mission into the Training Center would be feasible. Knowing the building as intimately as he does, Proximo had stated he thought we could pull the mission off, and even volunteered to lead it, should it be authorized. Alma Coin had listened patiently, but so far, no further word on the proposal has been handed down from her.

"Were you educated in a Capitol University?" Belle is asking Proximo with a small smile.

"Partially," Proximo is bashful. "But most of my early education was conducted in District 5."

"Five?" Primrose lifts her head out of her oatmeal bowl, inserting herself into the conversation with Mommy's new friend. "Why Five?"

"I'm from Five, originally. You can't tell now, Primrose, with all the gray hairs, but back in my day, I had the finest set of fiery locks you've ever seen. Ask your Aunt Maysilee about it; she'll tell you."

I snort. "Egoist."

"You wound me," Proximo claps a hand over his heart. "Anyway, I started my education in the District 5 Lower School. But our children in Five are tested very early on to measure aptitude, and I was one of them. Achieving an above-average score, I was fortunate enough to be admitted into the Peacekeeper Academy in the Capitol for basic training. I excelled in the Intelligence Exams, but unfortunately failed the physical, so they couldn't deploy me on a tour of duty into one of the districts. I was thus assigned to coach tributes in the Training Center; that's where I met Maysilee, and your daughter."

I could swear Belle is blushing. "If you knew Maysilee when she was a tribute, you must be around our age."

"Or, maybe just a little older," Proximo winks at me. "I'll be turning 47 next year, should the war go well."

Belle cocks an eyebrow, her deep blue eyes making a quick sweep of the man. "47? You certainly do _not_ look as old as 47!" Is she actually… _flirting_ with him?!

The pair of them study each other for a long moment; Primrose still peering between them and frowning. Face bowed into her oatmeal bowl, Katniss doesn't notice any of this.

Proximo finally tears his gaze away from my best friend to check his tattooed schedule. "Oh, look at the time! We'd best be off!" Standing, he offers Belle his arm, which she happily loops through his and they stroll out of the mess hall towards where their work in the medical ward beckons. Primrose has to clear her plate in record time and scamper to keep up with her mom.

I check the clock, then my own tattooed schedule: if Katniss and I run, we'll still make it to the Studios in time for filming. "Katty," I call softly. "Time to go meet Plutarch, dear." She morosely nudges her tray down the table in response and stands up. Sharing a look, Danny is wincing in concern but I just shake my head.

"Kitchens for you?"

"Yup. See you tonight, silly woman."

I smirk, stooping down to chastely peck his lips in a hurried kiss. "Love you." Rounding the table, I join Katniss, and we jog side by side through the labyrinth of corridors towards the Digital Studios.

* * *

"And….. ACTION!" Plutarch barks from the soundbooth, in that annoyingly serious voice he has developed in his role as 'director'. Out beyond the Plexiglas in the next room, Katniss hoists a staff above her head and shouts at the top of her lungs:

"PEOPLE OF PANEM, WE FIGHT, WE DARE, WE HUNGER FOR JUSTICE!"

"And…. CUT!" Plutarch calls, glancing over Cressida's shoulder to study the screens where she is already implementing special effects into the footage. Instead of the milquetoast black backdrop where Katniss has been filming, it is now colorized to project a digital battlefield, my goddaughter standing on a pile of rubble, pockets of fire (an intentional and deeply symbolic motif) flaring up around her. Even the flag of the rebellion is generated using computer animation. At least when this airs, Katniss will be holding something more meaningful than a staff that I am fairly sure Plutarch salvaged from somewhere in the Training Center.

Once Cressida is done mocking it up, everything about the 15-second propo is flashy and glorious. Except for one thing:

Katniss.

"We can't print this, much less air it," I convey to Plutarch.

"What are you talking about? It's _marvelous_!" he wrinkles his nose at me.

"If you sound like Effie Trinket one more time, I will walk all the way back to my apartment for my naginata and decapitate you with it!" Feeling the tears coming on without warning, I have to turn my face away for a moment. I had been in District 13 for a couple of nights already when I woke up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night as I remembered: Effie! I, of course, hadn't seen her since the morning the Quell began. Once the Games begin, escorts aren't allowed to be in the Games Headquarters or the Mentors' Bar. The usual custom is that they take to the streets, pounding the pavement to rustle up sponsors. Effie and I had always kept in contact via my temporary cellphone, when she would report back to me potential incoming funds, but I had lost touch with her towards the end of the Quell's second day. She was probably out in the street when the Games were cut short and everything went to shit. I hope she's all right…

I get a hold of myself and turn back to Plutarch. "Yes, everything about it is marvelous, except for our subject. No amount of Cressida's magic can alter the fact that Katniss sounds wooden whenever she opens her mouth. She's not feeling what she's saying."

"Well, then maybe you can talk to her."

"I don't think a lecture from me can fix what's ailing her, Plutarch," I state sadly. "I think we should take the issue up with Coin."

The ex-Gamemaker shrugs. "OK." He checks his watch. "We're due in Command in about 10 minutes anyway. We'd best start walking over there now." Clicking the intercom, he speaks into a microphone so that his voice reverberates into the next room: "That's a wrap for today, folks! Thanks for all your hard work!"

Katniss deflates with what looks like relief almost immediately, reinforcing my theory that she really isn't invested in what Plutarch and the others are asking her to do. Can any of us really blame her? She's been conscripted once again into a role she doesn't want, to advance a cause she doesn't want to advance mostly because she's afraid her participation will mean others get hurt – a hypothesis that has tragically been borne out. Her family was threatened. Her home was bombed. And now the person she loves most in the world is being held hostage miles away, his safety uncertain…. after Plutarch and his ilk fucked up their own rescue plan and allowed Peeta to be captured. Why _should_ Katniss assist a group of rabble-rousers who can't even get a rescue mission right and clearly don't recognize that Peeta's current state should be viewed as a hostage situation, to be remedied as quickly as possible? Katniss, more than anyone else, knows what she needs in order to be a true member of this team… and until she has what she needs, she isn't going to give us anything more than the bare minimum. I might be biased about the situation – after all, my _son_ is the one who is a prisoner of war – but Katniss is communicating as clearly as she can that she can't be an effective rebel leader if Snow still possesses even one of the cards in her deck. My goddaughter is silently screaming at us that she can't be a revolutionary until she knows everyone and everything that matters to her is safe… oh, but Plutarch thinks that what she is currently delivering is up to snuff. We've all been sitting here with our thumbs up our asses. We've conferred onto Katniss our expectations without letting her level her own.

That is the farthest thing from fair. And when we talk with Coin in just a few moments, I aim to remedy that. Hopefully, at my prompting, Katniss can then get out of her funk long enough to express her own needs and desires.

As I enter the soundstage to fetch Katniss, I watch Pollux the cameraman approach her and bashfully express something to her in sign language, ending it with a thumbs-up. Katniss turns into herself shyly, her expression a little perplexed.

"Thanks," she mumbles, clearly not believing what Pollux told her, which was probably (I know very little sign language) that whatever she's been doing is great. Katniss crosses to me, frowning hard. I give her the best smile I can, and help take her bow off her shoulders and hang it on the rack.

"Time to go meet with the President, dear."

Katniss absently checks her tattooed arm. "Yes, well…. we mustn't keep the President waiting." By the State, even her voice sounds flat! Lifeless. I try not to watch her too closely and risk her catching me staring, but she is definitely carrying herself with less confidence than I have ever seen from her. She also appears thinner than she ever has; I think I can see the outline of her ribs. Behind us, I can hear Plutarch following with a deluded spring in his step.

When we arrive at High Command, punctual and right on time, a dark-skinned general named Boggs admits us into the Situation Room. He smiles at Katniss – a strenuous exercise for the consummately professional soldier – but even with his best effort, Katniss doesn't smile back. She and I, along with Plutarch, take seats around the gray conference table.

At the head of the room, President Alma Coin is as gray and drab as the rest of the district she leads. Were it not for her sharp, golden eyes, I would have pegged her as someone living in the Seam back in Twelve.

"I hereby call this national security meeting to order," she bangs on a gavel. Katniss slumps a little further into her seat, chin on her chest. I resist the urge to nudge her and force her to pay attention.

"Before we begin the day's agenda, is there anything pressing that must be reported?" Coin asks. I have come to understand this question is mostly a formality, to be answered with silence more often than not, so the President is surprised when I speak up:

"Plutarch and I have news to report on the Mockingjay propos."

Coin purses her lips tightly but gives a deferential nod. "Ah, yes. How are those going?"

"Very well."

"Terribly."

Plutarch and I share a look at our diametrically opposed answers. Coin frowns harder; if she's amused by our dysfunction, she doesn't show it in the slightest.

"Which is it?" she presses.

"The special effects are going well. And Katniss is giving a very… forceful performance…." Plutarch starts babbling.

"Can it, Heavensbee. You're deluded." I am suddenly quite thankful that I wasn't as deeply involved in rebel plans in the lead up to the Quarter Quell plot, as Chaff was. If I had been, I probably would have killed Plutarch a long time ago, then made it look like an accident. I turn to Thirteen's leader. "Madame President, my goddaughter is not up to the task we've set before her."

This gets Katniss's attention, and she whirls to me, looking hurt. "Auntie Maysilee…"

I move to quickly explain myself, lest she thinks I am betraying her again. It took some time for me to convince her that I wasn't overly involved in the plot to break her out of the arena, to the point that there was pretty much nothing I could have hidden from her. Since then, my goddaughter and I have been actively working to repair our relationship.

"By that I mean, that she is largely unable to function." If I thought this clarification was going to help, it doesn't; Katniss is still gaping at me. Yes, the truth is sometimes hard to hear, but I still could be going about expressing it better. "Without my son, she doesn't have the passion that she needs to be an effective mouthpiece for your cause. And she doesn't think she should be if she is the one bearing all the expectations when we aren't listening to what is expected of _us_ … from her." That explanation could have been a little more artful, but there it is.

My goddaughter is now blushing beet red. For her part, Coin hasn't moved a tick.

"What do you suggest?" she asks.

I am heartened when Katniss answers before I can. "I…. need Peeta." Her face blooms even more aflame and she glances down into her lap. "I need him rescued and here, with me."

Studying her, Coin sneers. "So you mean to tell me that you can't effectively play soldier because your little boyfriend isn't here to help you keep house?"

My forehead creases so much, my eyebrows nearly stitch together. If I've always felt I never particularly liked this woman before, I like her even less now. "Listen, bitc…."

"I have other conditions," Katniss interrupts us both, her voice the strongest I have heard it in a long time. She turns to Boggs, just off her shoulder. "Can I have some paper?"

A little flustered, at least for him, the commander runs to fetch some, presenting it to my goddaughter with an accompanying pencil. Slowly, methodically, Katniss begins to write, in big, block letters. I try not to side-eye the paper too much, but I can decipher around her hand some of what she is proposing. At last, Katniss pushes the piece of paper into the center of the table, turning it so Coin can read. Tilting my head, I read sideways the following terms and conditions:

1\. MY SISTER GETS TO KEEP HER CAT.

This first point actually sets off a pretty heated argument, Coin insisting that District 13 doesn't believe in "comfort animals," to which Katniss replies that clearly, Madame President, you have never owned a pet. Cressida looks like she wants to let out a long "Ohhhhh….." at the perceived burn, but holds her tongue. Finally, Coin agrees to make an exception on behalf of Primrose and Buttercup, but warns my goddaughter that if the Devil Cat scratches anyone or is discovered to have rabies, it shall be released aboveground and into the wild immediately. I think that Primrose is probably going to have to lock Buttercup in the Everdeen apartment and potty-train the little beast for this to work.

2\. PEETA MELLARK IS TO BE RESCUED AND GRANTED IMMUNITY AT THE EARLIEST OPPORTUNITY.

Another argument erupts over how exactly we should view and treat my son. "We don't negotiate with terrorists," Coin states.

"Terrorists?" I holler at this cold-hearted bitch. "Who has my son terrorized, exactly?"

Still, no matter what Coin thinks Peeta has or hasn't done while in the Capitol's custody, Katniss has clearly remembered how Brutus Barsetti is currently being treated: locked in a jail cell miles below us and suspected as a Capitol spy and with only strict visitation rights for comfort. Should Peeta ever be recovered, she is trying to pre-emptively ensure that her lover avoids the same fate. It is unclear whether or not even Brutus deserves such treatment. Peeta most definitely does not. On this condition, Coin hedges, claiming she will "think about it, and discuss it with her advisers." She better not believe she can just table this indefinitely, like she did Proximo's rescue proposal.

3\. I GET TO HUNT ABOVEGROUND.

This point surprisingly requires little debate, with Boggs floating the suggestion that Katniss be granted hunting privileges once a week in her daily schedule, as long as a security detail also goes up to shadow her. My goddaughter looks like she wants to fight on this stipulation and ask for hunting privileges once a day, but Coin makes it clear this is as much leeway as she will allow. The President also states explicitly that if Katniss does anything while aboveground that she, Coin, views as reckless to the cause, these hunting privileges will be revoked.

4\. I KILL SNOW

The strongest objection to this point comes not from Coin, but from _me_. "No way! I have a score to settle with that bastard!"

Katniss just stares at me resolutely. "In that case, Auntie, you'll have to get in line." Then, completely unexpected, she smirks. I actually smile back.

Coin dips her head in Katniss's direction. "Very well. I agree. And in return…." She eyes my goddaughter hard. "You will be our Mockingjay." A conciliatory smile comes over the President's face. "I think in coming to me with your concerns, you and your handlers have raised a very good point. It would seem that your performances are languishing because you are delivering them cooped up on a soundstage. In the interest of realism, I think a change of scene might be in order. That is why, I think it would do Miss Everdeen good if we were to film these propos with her actually out in the field…."

I turn white. "That's not what I was suggesting at all…."

Just then, a young cadet bursts into the Situation Room. "Madame President! There is Capitol programming coming in through our airwaves. It's playing in the mess hall!"

"Have Beetee shut that fake news down immediately! I can't have it brainwashing my troops!" Coin snaps.

"With respect, ma'am…. you're going to want to see this. Peeta Mellark is live on the air."

Katniss's grey eyes go wide with thrilling fear, even as a bit of color returns to her cheeks for the first time in weeks.

The meeting breaks up and we race down to the mess hall, where Katniss and I were soon due to have lunch anyway. The common mess hall is for once eerily quiet, as I take in the sight of my youngest son – looking handsome in a white tuxedo (I oddly find myself recalling Beech Berryhill, my fallen district partner, on the night of our interviews, in this moment).

Caesar Flickerman is interviewing my son. The questions mostly concern the ending of the Quell and the subsequent reports of the rebels' war effort. Peeta is pointing to maps showing the Capitol's superior position over rebel forces. That the dots indicating suspected rebel strongholds are half the time in the completely wrong place grants me little comfort as I take in my baby boy.

On the surface, he looks like himself, but a few critical things are off. His cheeks are sunken in, there is less color in his face. And his brilliantly blue eyes no longer sparkle when he talks.

At my side, a hand to her mouth and her eyes swimming with tears, Katniss has noticed the change – however miniscule it might be to everyone else – too. "Oh, what have they done to you?" she gets out in a choked whisper.

Most disconcerting of all, however, is that the confidence with which Peeta speaks is now gone. More than once, we catch him glancing towards something out of frame, off-camera, as if he is being cued or coached to say the words he is speaking.

Then, suddenly, the passion comes back – at the completely wrong time – as Peeta insists to Caesar and to the world that a ceasefire must be called immediately.

"The Capitol and Thirteen each have the firepower to obliterate each other, Caesar!" Peeta insists, the game show host across from him looking a little flummoxed, like this somehow isn't part of the script, to suggest that Thirteen is evenly matched to the might of the Capitol. "I am asking everyone, no matter which side you are on, to call an armistice!"

The mess hall responds with boos and catcalls.

"Sell-out!"

"Traitor!"

"Capitol plant!" I see more than one pair of eyes hostilely glaring at me – the traitor's mother – and at Katniss – the traitor's girlfriend.

Averting my gaze, I find myself looking at Coin. She catches me staring and sends me a strange, little 'Told-You-So' smug smile. My blood chills: if she was ever considering even bothering to recue Peeta and grant him immunity, that option is off the table now.

My disquiet only grows as I hear Peeta say my name:

"Mom. Katniss: do you really know the people you are working for? Do you even know if you can trust them? And if you don't…. find out."

The image winks out, and the TV screens go dark.


	41. Best Friend Falls in Love Again

**Chapter 41: Best Friend Falls in Love Again**

When Katniss and I and the rest of the Mockingjay's team sit down for our first private meeting with Coin, the President makes it clear that she wants to deploy Katniss out into the field immediately… ideally, to some of the fiercest fighting on the front lines. For once, I have to appreciate how Plutarch can be a pompous ass, which he does to great effect when disagreeing with Coin, insisting that Katniss needs proper training in Weapons Development before being sent out on any tour of duty. After all, Plutarch insists to her, I am the Mockingjay's handler, and I know her needs best. I want to say that it is actually _I_ who knows Katniss's needs best, but Plutarch's presumption is enough to get Coin to agree to at least training for the next several weeks. Although, the President does not look happy when giving the order, which makes my stomach clench in suspicion. Something is _off_ about this chick….

Katniss and I continue filming propos, and though she tries harder, her performance remains stilted. My goddaughter is prone to heavy sighing and occasional bouts of tears; I know Peeta's absence still weighs on her deeply. So it is an immense relief when final approval is granted for Katniss to go up to the surface and hunt once a week. Boggs and a contingent of his men will accompany her aboveground every Friday morning; though they must be careful about lingering risks of radiation exposure, there is apparently plenty of game to still be had in the desolate forests. Pollux asks Katniss if he might come along and bring his camera, to film her. When she hesitates, he signs that the quality of the propos might be elevated if he films her doing natural things. She won't even know he's there. To my surprise, Katniss actually agrees, answering _in sign language_ that she thinks this is a wonderful idea. A final addition to the hunting party is Gale Hawthorne, allowing Katniss to have a fellow bowman watching her back…. and also giving Gale some time away from where he has been spending every free moment he can with Johanna Mason. I hope the two young Seamers will at least get to know each other.

Katniss's hunting privileges mean I essentially have Friday mornings off. Since I've never been the type to sit still, I decide to fill this chunk of free time by going down to the medical ward and lending a hand. It's better than sitting in my apartment alone while Danny is working in the kitchens.

My presence as an extra body, when I first arrive there looking to volunteer, is much needed. Annie Cresta has landed herself in the medical ward for psychiatric evaluation, after suffering a particularly traumatic flashback to the arena. Finnick is profoundly grateful that somewhere is there to spell him when he cannot be at his love's side; he's been busy splitting time working with Beetee and Gale in Weapons Development, while also giving lectures to District 13's Joint Chiefs about amphibious combat, for a water campaign to liberate District 4 that is looking increasingly likely.

Though neither of them are trained in psychiatric care, Proximo and Belle (and once in a while, Primrose) stop by as often as they can to at least evaluate Annie's physical condition. The poor girl seems to do best when she is surrounded by people she knows. She remembers Proximo from the Training Center when she was a tribute, and once she gets to know Katniss Everdeen's mother and baby sister, she takes a liking to them right away.

On this particular morning, as I sit at Annie's sickbed and hold her hand, Proximo is regaling his patient with a story about a visit he took to Four while on paid leave, at the invitation of a friend in that district's Peacekeeper Barracks during the Games off-season.

"I've always wanted to go back there, Miss Cresta," Proximo expresses, as behind him, Belle checks Annie's vital signs and the measurements of her fluid intake from her IV stand. "Perhaps when the war's over, I'll buy myself a boat."

Annie giggles. "Wait till my uncle gets to know you. He's the dockmaster for the port on Victors' Island. I bet he'd allow you to captain one of his fastest ships."

Proximo chuckles, the sound fading as he gets a far-away look in his eyes. "… The winds aloud howl o'er the masts and sing through every shroud… Pale, trembling, tired, the sailors freeze with fears – and instant death, on every wave appears!"

Annie claps her hands in delight. "Homer's _Iliad_!" She plays with the edges of her down comforter happily. "Oh, I think that's one of the most beautiful things ever written…"

Smiling softly, I chance a glance at Belle, only to find that my best friend is gazing at Proximo with wonder, as if she's never seen him before. Thinking back to one breakfast several months ago, when Danny said how he had seen that look before, I suddenly realize what he meant:

Belle is looking at Proximo the same way she used to look at Glen.

* * *

On Friday morning a week later, I am taking a prescription notice down to the far end of the ward, on an errand for one of the doctors. As I pass by a medicine storage room, I hear moaning and heavy breathing coming from inside.

"Mmmm….. No, Proximo, we mustn't…."

"We can. Why shouldn't we? I've seen how you look at me…"

"Hmmmm…. My – my daughters! My daughters would _never_ forgive me if we – Mmmm…."

"You're so beautiful…. Belle…."

Frowning, before I can second-guess myself, I try the door handle and find it gives for me.

I walk in on my former trainer and my best friend wrapped in a close embrace, kissing heatedly and their lips parted for each other. Belle has one leg hoisted to Proximo's waist. His one hand rests on her bum while the other is groping under her skirts, which are now bunched up around her hips.

Belle's eyes – closed dreamily – suddenly pop open at the sound of the door opening. Her blue orbs lock onto me, and she squeaks, wrenching her lips free of the kiss and quickly disentangling herself. Proximo releases her, looking a little guilty and gawping when he sees me.

"Maysie!" Belle gasps out, turning beet red. "I… I….."

Glancing between the couple, I smile knowingly. Ignoring my best friend for the moment, I turn to her lover. "Proximo…." I wag my finger in his direction. _Come hither_.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't satisfied to see Proximo gulp a little at my invitation, glancing once to Belle, who shakily nods. Following me out of the storage room, I close the door behind us.

"How long has this been going on?" I ask.

Proximo rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly. "…. I've lost count?" he finishes lamely. "Time passes oddly down here."

After a moment, I smirk. "It passes even more strangely when you're in love." I remember well my early courtship with Danny. The days seemed to fly by.

Proximo smiles weakly.

"You know…. she's my best friend. And she's gone through quite a bit of heartbreak in her life. Broke off a serious relationship after I came home from the arena. Then she married outside her class, only to become widowed when Primrose was still small. So, if you aren't serious about her, you need to tell her _now_. You need to tell _me_ now…. so I can make out a return policy on that naginata you gave me – right into your gut." I cock a loaded eyebrow at him, and Proximo turns a little pale.

To his credit, he nods solemnly. "I love her, Maysilee. She's _amazing_."

"She's also mother to two pretty headstrong young women who miss their father terribly. Think you can handle that?"

"Of course. That doesn't bother me. I've spent time with Primrose – she's a lovely girl; just like her mother."

"It's not Primrose's approval I'm worried about, Proximo," I confess. "It's Katniss's."

Belle now steals out of the storage room, glancing between the pair of us, concerned. A besotted expression coming over his face, Proximo steps quite close and whispers something to her that I can't hear. Drawing back, Belle's cheeks are pink again, but she nods bravely. Proximo beams, pecks her on the cheek and is gone.

"What did he say?" I prod teasingly, expecting Belle to snap that it's none of my business. So, when she whispers to me what Proximo asked her and requests my help, I also go red.

* * *

"There's lots of leftovers you can re-heat," Belle is prattling that night, as she gathers up her medical bag with basic supplies (and also some toiletries stuffed, unseen, in the bottom). "Make sure Prim does her homework and both of you – get. To bed. On time." She lays down the law through gritted teeth. My best friend makes a show of checking her tattooed schedule on her arm. "I should be back in the morning, by breakfast. You can be in charge that long, can't you?"

Seated on her bed, Katniss is only half-listening to her mother as she fingers the spile from the arena – the only thing she really has to remind her of my son. "Yeah, but… why am I in charge again?"

"Just a last-minute night-owl shift at the med ward," Belle fibs lamely.

"Really? Then why wasn't it printed on your schedule?" Prim's brow furrows as she rolls up her own sleeves.

Belle can't quite look her youngest child in the eye, as she mumbles, "I told you – Proximo asked me, and it was last-minute! Now both of you, be good. Auntie Maysilee will be here if you need her!" She kisses both of her daughters on the forehead. "Good night! Love you!"

My best friend and I step out onto the balcony and begin walking over to Proximo's apartment. Belle is jittery, wringing her hands, and I can't help but smile. She's as nervous as a schoolgirl, as nervous as when Glen would so much as enter the room, or when my own husband – her ex-boyfriend - would sit next to her in class, once upon a time.

"Am I doing the right thing?" she bites her lip.

"You love this man, don't you?"

"Yes," she whispers. "Gods, I haven't felt this way since…."

I smile wider. "Since Glen?"

"Yeah…."

A pause and then I get out:

"Night-owl shift at the med ward?"

Belle shrugs. "They believed me, didn't they?"

I burst out laughing. "Oh, Belley…. You really shouldn't lie to your daughters."

"Well, why not make an exception here?"

"Because you suck dick at it!" I gape in shock and chuckle all the heartier when Belle's face blooms aflame at the words. "OK…. considering what you clearly intend to do tonight, maybe that wasn't my best turn of phrase. At least promise me you'll use protection?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, _Mother_." She checks a slip of paper with an address written on it, as we come to a halt likely before the door in question. A small pause, and my best friend turns back to me. "Do you think Glenny would be….?"

I smile tenderly. "I think he would be happy for you." So saying, I reach around her and rap on the door.

Proximo opens it almost immediately, eyes only for Belle.

"Hi."

"Hi," she squeaks. Leaning in, they kiss lightly. I snort, and Proximo looks over at me.

"Thanks for the time, warden."

"I'd prefer the term _chaperone_ ," I quip dryly. "You kids have fun."

Proximo ushers Belle in and closes the door behind them. Loitering slightly, I press my ear to the wood. Before long, I can hear giggling, followed by moans, grunts and the creak of bedsprings. Smiling in satisfaction, I turn around and stroll on back to the Everdeen apartment to check on the girls.

* * *

A couple of Fridays later, just before lunchtime, I am at the lifts waiting to meet Katniss and her hunting party as they return belowground from another successful outing. When the elevator doors open, I am shocked to see my goddaughter's one arm saturated with blood, and Gale Hawthorne supporting her. Pollux is hovering behind them both, looking deeply concerned.

"What happened?" I take Katniss from Gale.

"Stupid buck charged her and she barely managed to fell it in time. Beast nearly ran her down," Gale huffs. "Thankfully, we were just about done for the day."

Katniss hisses through the pain, and I pat her head. "Come on, young lady, to the med ward with you."

We get there in record time, and quickly bump into Primrose, who takes one look at her sister and calmly waves us back to the storage rooms.

"I have some antiseptic we can put on that…" Primrose opens the medicine storage room, only to find her mother and Proximo heatedly kissing. The pair snap apart hurriedly, Belle squeaking and wiping at her mouth when she sees both of her daughters gawping at her.

"Prim, darling…. Katty! Back so soon? How was your hunt?"

A long, tense pause. And then, growling in rage, Katniss strings the bow across her back and actually takes deadly aim at Proximo.

"NO!" I grab her arm and yank, forcing the shot to go high; the arrow pierces a box of Melatonin instead.

"What the hell are you doing with her?" Katniss spits angrily at her former arena trainer.

"I… I…." To his credit, Proximo backs up, hands raised in surrender. Katniss lunges for him again, and I slink my arms about her waist and hold her tight against my chest, ignoring how she thrashes and screams.

"Stop it! ….. Katniss Magenta Everdeen, stop it this minute!"

"You stay away from her, you hear me?!" Katniss shrieks invective as we back out of the storage room, a sheepish Prim reaching around to grab the antiseptic on our way out the door. "You'll never replace my father, understand?!"

The door mercifully closes, and I set Katniss down, though I keep a grip on her shoulder.

"Primrose, take your sister down to an open bay and get that wound treated."

"But, Auntie…." Primrose is whimpering, also starting to come to terms with what she just saw.

"Go," I order. Prim takes Katniss's hand and the two girls slink away down the corridor. A moment later, Proximo and Belle emerge from the storage room guiltily. My best friend allows herself a quick kiss before hurrying to the opposite end of the ward.

Proximo furtively checks down both ends of the hallway. "Is it safe?"

"For now," I concede.

He chuckles awkwardly. "I taught you both too well in the Training Center." He sighs heavily. "I always thought Katniss liked me. She visited all my stations the most…"

"Yeah, but that was before she found out you're now shagging her mother," I remind him gently.

"Right." He shifts from foot to foot. "I'm never gonna get her approval. Not now, anyway. She doesn't even want to know me, does she?"

"That is not true," I shake my head. "She's just…. so stressed out missing her own love and missing her dad, and clinging to…. anger and stubborn pride that it's all getting in the way of her realizing how _much_ she wants to know you."

"Yeah…." he mumbles, clearly not believing me.

"Hey: I'll talk to Katniss, and she will come around. It may take some time, but she'll come around. I promise you that."

Back at my apartment that night, when I recount the story to Danny, he laughs and laughs.

"It's not _funny_ , Dannel! Katniss could have killed him!"

"I know, dearest, but…" he cackles, crowing. "I _knew_ it! I knew something was going on between Belle and that guy!"

I bite my lip, studying him. "Do you think Katniss will accept Proximo?"

"Well, she clearly is protective of her mother. But if Belle and Proximo are meant to be, then it all will work out. Besides," and he wraps his arms around me. "Anybody who loves that strongly once can do it again."

I smirk up at him. "Just look at us. We're living proof."

My husband smiles back, and we kiss.


	42. You Burn With Us & Dead by Morning

**Chapter 42: You Burn With Us & Dead By Morning**

It is actually to my relief – and probably best for everyone involved – that President Coin declares Katniss fit to serve on the battlefield not long after the whole Belle-Proximo affair comes out. The Mockingjay and her team – which includes me, Plutarch, Cressida, and Pollux – are to be sent to District 8, where some of the fiercest fighting is still occurring. Commander Paylor and Victor Cecelia Rheys are to accompany us and act as special envoys to the textile district.

Although I have never exactly liked my fellow Victor from Eight, I cannot help but feel sympathetic towards Cecelia, who clearly does not want to go. The pain of wandering through her decimated ancestral homeland, the place where her husband and three babies died, will surely be great. Plus, she seems reluctant to leave behind Brutus, locked in his jail cell. In one of the few conversations I have with her before the trip, she expresses to me that she fears Coin might do something to her lover and fellow Victor while she is away. Immediately, Cecelia tries to brush it off as paranoia; I decide to let my silence speak for itself, as I am beginning to suspect that such thoughts of double-crossing are not entirely unfounded, where the President of Thirteen is concerned.

We are now in the hovercraft speeding across the no-man's land. District 8 has always been furthest to the southeast, well beyond District 12, so we won't get to the urban district until close to evening. Our flight path is such that we won't ever have to enter Capitol airspace, but about four hours into the journey (takeoff was just after first light), we can actually look out the windows and see the city's skyscrapers in the distance. I press my hand against the glass longingly. So close, and yet so far…. is it possible that my son can see our jet streams from a distance, wherever he is holed up? I feel a palpable urge to burst into the cockpit, hijack the aircraft and turn it around to risk a rescue mission, damn the consequences!

Turning away, I spot Katniss also peering at the distant high-rises with an equally strong longing, also mixed with a burning hatred. She turns away sadly, sighing as she rests her head between her knees. She has been very quiet and sullen since she caught her mother wrapped in the arms of a man who isn't her father. I know the reality of her mother seeing someone else is scary and new, but Belle has been a widow for going on seven years now. There was a time where I thought she would never be able to find love again, after Glen; that she has, albeit in the strangest of circumstances (war is a rather bizarre place to discover and make new love), leaves me thrilled. To the best of my knowledge, Katniss hasn't spoken to Belle at all in the last few days since The Incident. I had considered taking Belle aside and urging her to sit both the girls down and discuss her new relationship, but decided it was better if I stayed out of it. Maybe the situation will resolve itself organically. Though I still think Belley should talk to Katniss and Prim, and probably even go so far as to say that if her being with Proximo makes them uncomfortable, she should break it off.

I don't tell this to Katniss, of course; she might interpret my counsel as permission for her to be selfish and forbid her mother from being happy with the new man in her life. My goddaughter has certainly adopted some emotional… malpractice in the wake of arriving in Thirteen. And while missing Peeta might be an overarching excuse, it is not the _only_ one – for her becoming so moody, quick to temper. Selfish, even, in some respects. And the anger – Plutarch has noticed her mood swings too, and seems encouraged that the anger could at least be channeled into something productive, for the cause. Always the cause, with him! Not everything is so complex, and not everything can be used. Katniss's emotional tempest may be as simple as a teenage girl dumped into the confusing tornado of love – whether it's her own or someone else's - and all that comes with it… and her clear inability to deal with any of it.

Physically removed from at least the one situation as she is, though, maybe now would be the time to feel out her opinions on her mother dating again. I decide to start small, and see where it leads me.

"Did you say goodbye to your mom?"

Katniss grunts something unintelligible in response. She lifts her head to meet my eyes, the stormy grey in them hopeful that I will drop it, but I just stare back stoically. Defeated, Katniss finally mumbles a clear, "Yes."

"Good for you," I throw out there, my tone making it very clear that I didn't think she would have actually done something so cordial. I get the reaction I want.

"You think I wouldn't have? We are going into a _war zone_ , after all! I might never see her again!"

"Very true, but don't change the subject," I lecture.

"Maybe it's better if I don't come back," Katniss bemoans melodramatically. "She has her new little squeeze toy, after all, and Prim! I thought the same thing before the Games, you know – she could get on without me…."

"OK, stop: First of all, your mother would be devastated if anything happened to you, so cut out the dramatics. Second of all, his name is Proximo, so at least show him the respect of referring to him by his proper name."

Katniss folds her arms and scowls petulantly, her nose turning up as she sniffs, "I don't have to respect him. I already have a father, thank you, and he was a damn finer man than…"

"Proximo doesn't want to replace Glen!" My voice rises a little. Around us in the belly of the hovercraft, I note how Pollux and the others are awkwardly trying to look in any direction but ours. Cressida starts fiddling with her set of microphones. I soften my volume a little, but the earnestness remains. "He cares about your mother very much, and he understands that she and your family have had…. a complicated history. He wants to get to know you, and Prim. He and Prim have been working together for months; she quite likes him…."

Katniss snorts. "I bet she played matchmaker with them, didn't she?" she sneers.

"Um, Prim walked in on them same as us, and it looked to me like she was quite shocked…"

"Prim played matchmaker with me and Peeta."

With that, she lays her own trap, and I spring it.

"Now, Katniss Magenta – you're not being fair!" I scold harshly. "To your mom or to Prim! You and Peeta did just fine falling in love on your own, even if your sister did give you a little push. How would you have felt if your mother tried to butt into your relationship with Peeta? How would you have felt if she didn't approve?"

I am heartened to see that my goddaughter has grown quiet.

"But your love life and that of your mom's are not at all comparable. First of all, she's had lovers before Proximo – she was married and had children by your dad, for Panem's sake! Peeta was your very first kiss, if I remember correctly…."

"Hang on:" Katniss seizes on something. "You just said lover _s_. As in, plural." She bites her lip, wringing her hands. "Did…. was my mom with anyone, before my dad?"

I nod. "Up until we were a little younger than you, your mom was in a pretty serious relationship with my husband."

Katniss's eyes grow huge, her mouth falling open. "Uncle Dannel? ….. Ew! Gross!"

I can't help it – I laugh. "I know it sounds a little funny, huh? Strange as it may seem, your mom and Peeta's dad were together for two years. We all thought they were going to get married."

"What happened?" Katniss wants to know.

I smile guiltily. "I suppose it's somewhat my fault. It started when your uncle gave me a Reaping Kiss the morning I was selected for the Games, for good luck. Your mom wasn't bothered by it, but then…. I was Reaped. Then I won and came home. While I was in the arena, your mom met your dad when they were watching me compete. They grew closer at school – I wasn't privy to much of this, of course, as by that time, I'd dropped out. Danny noticed how friendly your parents had become and was a little jealous. Then, your mom heard your dad sing at my sister's wedding reception." I smile softly. "I think she fell in love instantly. By the time I came home from my Victory Tour, she and Danny had broken up, and she was with your dad."

"… And then you and Uncle Danny fell in love," Katniss finishes.

I chuckle fondly. "We did. It was a little sudden, but also exciting. We were married the following summer."

Several beats pass as Katniss thinks on all of this. Softly, I take her hand. "Your mom wouldn't fall in love with just anyone, Katniss," I murmur. "She's usually chosen the best of the best men. I know – I was fortunate to marry one of them!" We both giggle. "I've known Proximo for years. He's a lovely person. I seem to recall you took a shining to him too, when you were training for the Games."

Katniss nods. "That was before…" she shook her head. "All right. If we get back from Eight in one piece, I'll… I'll give him a try. Talk to him."

I beam. "That's my girl."

Boggs steps from the cockpit just then, where he has been conferring with the pilot. "Captain Newsom says District 8 is on final approach. We'll soon begin our descent."

We dip below the clouds and swoop in towards an urban landscape. Right away, we can tell that many buildings have been bombed out. Over the hovercraft's intercom, Captain Newsom assures us that Capitol bombers have been driven from District 8 airspace thanks to a ground-to-air missile assault over the last few days; he has no concerns that we might be shot out of the sky. Joining us at the windows, Cecelia and Commander Paylor give us an aerial tour of District 8, and in Paylor's case, a rough report of the state on the ground. The rebels here have maintained a hold over the textile mills, and a recent defection of a good chunk of the district's Peacekeeping forces the week prior has been a boon; there are hopes that we will soon be able to take the Justice Building, where the Mayor and many in his administration have barricaded themselves inside. While it would be a strategic foothold, overrunning the Justice Building would largely be a formality and mostly confer onto us the district's communications. Keeping the textile mills as we have, District 8 largely belongs to the rebel forces now. The Capitol will be severely handicapped in their ability to install new floors on their hovercrafts, for example, without the textile districts supplies, critically delaying their production. And so far, the Capitol's battle strategy has been an aerial campaign; there is no ground war to speak of…. yet, though Paylor thinks that shift may take place soon.

We land just beyond the Victors' Village, which only ever had four houses filled. I notice how Cecelia is fixated on the mansion at the left farthest corner, just inside the gates; it must be where she lived with her husband and built a family.

"Cece, would you like to go in?" Paylor's voice is incredibly gentle, but the young Victor shakes her head.

"I don't think the Mockingjay would want a tour of such a sad place." She turns away with a sigh, wiping at her eyes. "Besides, we need to get Katniss to the hospital, so she can visit with the injured."

The invocation of a hospital reminds me of a problem that Katniss actually solved before we left. The visit to this hospital in Eight is significant, as it will be the first time that Katniss has been seen alive since the end of the Quarter Quell. Over the ensuing months, rumors have abounded outside our hermetically-sealed community in Thirteen that Katniss is dead – something that I am sure Snow would love very much for his people to believe. Unfortunately, a disputing of that fact will leave many confused, as Katniss was believed to be at least two months pregnant at the time of the Quell. How do we explain away the fact that there was no baby, that my goddaughter never gave birth? Had she really been expecting, she likely would either be in the ending weeks of her pregnancy or even already delivered by now. Katniss solved the issue in our final strategy meeting by floating the idea of a miscarriage. Coin agreed to it rapidly.

Paylor leads us through many of the bombed out streets on the way to the hospital – one of the few structures outside of the Victors' Village, the Justice Building and the larger textile mills still standing. At one point, Cecelia once again goes quiet as we pass by a razed blacktop; for once, she doesn't point out what used to be there, the way she has been throughout our sweep of the district. Remembering a conversation I had with her mentor, Cora Shutter, years ago, I wonder if this used to be the sight of the district brothel, of which Cora was the madame.

Much of Fog Town, District 8's working-class neighborhood and where Cecelia grew up, is eerily deserted and quiet. The silence clearly unnerves my goddaughter, who moves cautiously and even has her bow strung and at the ready. At one point, Pollux lightly touches Katniss's arm; glancing to him, she smiles weakly.

Pollux signs something with his hands. Still illiterate in his form of communication though I may be, I have to imagine it's roughly the equivalent of _Are you all right?_

 _I'm fine_ , Katniss seems to sign back.

Paylor finally points out the hospital looming above us as we turn the next corner. It's set in a section of town surrounded by bombed out buildings, and all the glass in the windows has been blown out. It's a miracle the facility survived the Capitol's aerial assault, and looking like a shell of a building same its neighbors around it, it is fortunate it has managed to keep its head down and continue its work.

A rebel lieutenant dressed interestingly in the white-plated uniform of a Peacekeeper greets Paylor at the door – a turncoat to our side, perhaps? Paylor makes no confirmation one way or the other, and simply ushers us inside.

At my left, Plutarch Heavensbee seems unsure whether to act dismayed by the sheer devastation and death that now lines both walls, or to be heartened that so many of these banged-up fighters are survivors, their eyes burning with the hunger to do battle with the Capitol another day. To my right, Katniss also appears taken aback by the traumas and horrors of war, now before her on graphic display. Heads are bandaged, arms are in slings. One man has two stumps where both his legs should be, as well as much of his left forearm amputated, but smiles at me gamely as I pass.

None of us are entirely sure how or when it starts, or who starts it. But someone spies my goddaughter and recognizes her. A pair of eyes go wide, and her name is spoken like a prayer. "Katniss Everdeen."

Then another person says it. And another. And _another_. A few more able-bodied casualties actually manage to lift themselves out of their cots and walk, stagger, in a few cases crawl to my goddaughter's side until a crowd gathers. People reach out to take her hand. Touch her face. Knowing that she is someone who only allows physical displays of affection from a select few people, I am at first uncertain as to how Katniss will take this warm reception. To my surprise and pride, she accepts each and every outpouring of support with grace, apparently deeply moved.

Some ask her if it is really her, if she really is alive, like she is a vision or a ghost. Many more ask her about Peeta: is he all right? Katniss doesn't exactly answer this question satisfactorily; she can't, getting emotional each time it is brought up. Her tears play well whenever this question is usually followed up immediately by: where is the baby? How is it? Miscarriage, she'll say tearfully. Katniss has never been the best actress – not the way that my son was – but still manages to play it believably. And in any case, there is one thing she doesn't fake, nor could if she tried: her pain over missing her beloved Peeta is all too real.

Suddenly, a steady whine splits the air above us, and many of the District Eight soldiers who are still in fighting shape whip out automatic weapons. Long range rifles.

"Incoming!" the lieutenant calls. "Commander, Miss Rheys – get the Mockingjay out of here!" Boggs forces Katniss to bend low to the ground and hustles her towards the hospital entrance, the rest of our party racing behind.

"Back to the hovercraft!" Plutarch calls over the growing chaos. "Stay in formation, and use the buildings for cover, if necessary!"

We are clear of the hospital facility, and have only made it a block or two before tremors shake the earth. Glancing back, I can see Katniss staring up at the Capitol fighter planes and hovercraft swooping overhead. I hope we can make it back to Victors' Village before our own hovercraft is discovered; if it is spotted and obliterated, we'll be stranded.

As we watch in horror, one of the Capitol's planes drops a payload of bombs directly over the hospital. A majority of the structure collapses and pockets of fire go up. The steady stream of people who can evacuate turns into a gushing torrent, but still many others who are unable to walk or move will be trapped.

Another bomb lands too close for comfort, and Plutrach herds most of us in a wild dive to take shelter against the corner of the ruins of one tenement.

I scan the faces near me wildly. "KATNISS!"

Across the street, my goddaughter has taken shelter and scaled a power line steeple. Even from this far away, I can see her face twisted into an outraged sneer as she pulls back the string on her bow.

"Shoot her! Shoot her! Are you getting this?!" Cressida is screaming at Pollux, and he just nods frantically, the camera rolling.

Taking aim, Katniss fires at the Capitol craft as it sweeps in to make one more run on the hospital. It is a direct hit and the plane flames out just before dropping its payload. Katniss's attack with literal fiery arrows (apparently a design by Beetee) causes the plane to completely miss its target and drop its crate of bombs on the Justice Building instead before the craft itself crashlands into the building.

The explosion is humongous and oddly beautiful, as the Justice Building burns with all of the Capitol's district leadership still barricaded inside. We may now not get access to the communication consoles, but at least the Capitol won't either. District 8 is now cut off from the outside world and most importantly, its oppressor.

There is another shudder and we huddle tighter together as we watch the rest of the hospital collapse in on itself. Screams from the dead and dying still inside can be heard. We may have taken out the Justice Building, but the hospital is destroyed.

As the buzz of Capitol bombers fades, Cressida and Pollux creep out and into the street, approaching where Katniss is watching the hospital and the Justice Building burn.

"Katniss? Is there anything you'd like to say to the people watching at home?"

My goddaughter turns slowly at Cressida's question. "Yes. I want to talk to the people who don't believe that the Capitol would destroy us or don't realize what they can do. _This_ is what they do!" She gestures all around and behind her. "The Capitol just destroyed a field hospital filled with innocent men, women and children. But we just destroyed their Justice Building, and their puppet mayor inside it. So I have a message for President Snow: fire is catching. If we burn, you burn with us!"

Plutarch lets out a victorious shout, clenching his fists. "CUT!" he bellows, and Pollux cuts the feed. The ex-Gamemaker is practically vibrating, grabbing me, Cecelia, Paylor, anyone who will listen.

"Did you get that? Did you hear what she said?" He enthusiastically shakes his fist. "Now, you listen to me, you're going to remember this to your last day! I hope Snow soils himself when we air that, the fucker!"

Locking eyes with my goddaughter, I give her a beaming smile and a thumbs-up. Slowly, Katniss smiles back with the most confidence I think I've seen from her – ever.

She has finally become the Mockingjay.

* * *

We manage to return to and lift off in our hovercraft safely. On the return trip, Captain Newsom detects Capitol radar coming in close to our airspace, so we touch down in some green meadow (still untouched by war's devastation) somewhere between Districts 12 and 13 just to be safe.

Encamped by a stream, a group of mockingjays is whistling. Katniss whistles out a new tune, and they copy it almost instantly. Just like they used to do for her father.

Fiddling with his camera, Pollux gazes at Katniss, enraptured. When he smiles at her after she catches him staring, she blushes. Pollux merely smiles at her and signs something. Katniss frowns at him bemusedly.

"You want me to _sing_?"

He nods eagerly.

I don't think I've heard Katniss sing since before she entered the arena the first time. She certainly has had no reason to sing since being stuck underground in Thirteen. She has been too sad to. But here, now, in this beautiful place, on a respite from war and battles, she lifts her voice in that pretty alto that first caused my son to fall hard:

" _Down in the valley, the valley so low, late in the evening, hear the train blow… The Train, love, hear the train blow…_ "

* * *

We are in the mess hall for dinner one evening, a few days after returning from District 8, when it happens.

Capitol programming suddenly breaks into the regular entertainment approved by District 13… and Katniss and I both freeze when we realize it is _Peeta_ who is now onscreen.

My goddaughter and I can both tell right away: whatever they are doing to him, Peeta is looking worse. I have never seen him look physically this endangered, not even in the arena either time, except right after he walked into the forcefield.

Caesar is trying to coach Peeta through a report on the bombing in District 8. Much of it is Capitol propaganda, of course, like how they try to frame the building which collapsed as not being a hospital, but a secret rebel nuclear stash. The bombing of the Eight Justice Building, and Katniss's cause of it is, obviously, played in full.

"Katniss…" Peeta is now saying. "What will the cost be? How many lives will be lost as you go around playing soldier?" There is something unrecognizably mocking and jeering to Peeta's plea, and I don't like it a bit.

All at once, the image of Peeta fritzes out, to be replaced by one of Katniss in the meadow by that stream, singing while Pollux secretly filmed her.

" _Down in the valley, the valley so low, late in the evening, hear the train blow… The Train, love, hear the train blow…_ "

Most critical of all: Peeta _sees_ and _hears_ her. You can tell from the stunned expression on his face.

"Katniss?"

I understand what's happening, as the room lifts its collective voice in a chorus of unexpected cheers: Beetee has managed to hack into the Capitol's programming system, and is fighting to maintain control.

The images onscreen soon become a spliced cut between Peeta's bewildered face and Katniss's beautiful singing. I had no idea that Beetee would be attempting a hack into the Capitol's digital systems so soon, or why he wouldn't have given Coin and the rest of us fair warning that he was close to making such an attempt.

Now why wouldn't Beetee have kept us informed of his progress? Unless…. Unless he trusts Coin and her team about as little as I do.

The onscreen image settles back onto Peeta and stays there; Beetee must have been booted off. Peeta is sitting perfectly still, clearly shaken.

"We had some…. technical difficulties there, folks, our apologies," Caesar chuckles tightly from somewhere out of frame. "Peeta? Is there anything you would like to say to Miss Everdeen further?"

Peeta slowly turns his head to look directly into the camera. "They're coming, Katniss," he breathes. "Bombs raining down – you'll be dead by morning!"

Hands are grabbing him, yanking him away, but he gets the words out. "Cut it! Cut it!" someone is screeching, and the screens abruptly go dark.

For a moment, all is quiet. And then screams go up.

Standing at the far edge of the room, Coin springs into action, waving people out of the mess hall and down the flights of stairs. "Everyone, to the bunker!"

Chaos reigns. There is an impossible crunch of bodies on the stairwell, and I fear some will be pushed off and fall to their deaths as people are barely able to keep from trampling over each other to get to the bomb bunkers at the bottom-most level of Thirteen's facilities. I am somehow able to keep a hold of Katniss in the throng. Her grey eyes are wild and petrified, screaming as she searches for her mother and sister.

Then someone is squeezing her other hand, and Belle is at her side, Proximo resting a hand on his lover's shoulder. Mother is about as stricken as daughter, as she screams, "Primrose! Primrose! Where is Primrose?!"

We are at the second-to-most bottom floor now, where the political prisoners are held. I push Katniss towards her mother and Proximo. "Get to the bunker! I'll get Primrose!" And I try to fight my way upstream, past the flood of people streaming in the opposite direction. If Prim went back for that damn cat...

I barely get to the next floor above the dungeons when I bump into Primrose, predictably holding Buttercup. Somehow, she managed to get back to the Everdeen apartment and recover The Devil Cat.

"Into the bunker! Find your mother and sister!" I order, reversing course to guide her down the stairs. As I watch my littlest surrogate niece dash for safety, I suddenly remember someone else who is still in danger. Biting my lip, I enter the prison ward.

Cecelia Rheys is there, pleading with the warden on duty.

"You have to let him out! If he's not in the bunker when the bombs arrive, he could be killed!"

"Not on your life…" The warden shakes her head.

The guard's back is to me, so she doesn't see me coming. Tackling the poor woman, I apply a hold I learned from Proximo in the Training Center so long ago and she almost falls asleep in my grip. Setting her body aside, I pluck the cell key off her person, and Cecelia and I break into Brutus's cell.

Cecelia throws her arms around her fellow Victor and kisses him as I set to work unlocking the electro-coils holding him.

"What are you doing?" my old mentor asks between Cecelia's kisses, bewildered.

"Saving you life," I snarl. "You may be a prisoner, and you may be an ass, but you deserve to be bombed into oblivion about as little as we do!" Freeing him, I grab his other hand. "Come on!" I remember to pause just long enough to get the unconscious guard up and across my shoulders.

We three Victors make a mad dash for the bunker doors, Coin at the threshold and screaming at the last stragglers to hurry up; our technicians project that the Capitol bombers are only a few minutes out. The large, steel doors are closing fast and Cecelia and I dive through with Brutus and the warden, not waiting to see if Coin will try and stop us from leading a political prisoner to safety. Knowing her, she probably would.

Only a minute or two after our quartet is clear of the blast doors, the steel closes behind us, entombing us all into darkness.

A minute after that, we can feel the quakes from high above as bombs begin to rain down on no-man's land. Dust falls from the ceiling, and the bunker itself shakes. Lights briefly flicker in, and then wink out with chilling permanence.

I find my husband, Rye and Jonadab quickly in the mass of bodies. Down here in the bomb shelter, hundreds of cots and air mattresses are set up. On one set of mounted bunk beds, I see Belle resting her head on Proximo's shoulder, Primrose tucked into her other side. On another cot, Finnick and Annie are huddled together. On an air mattress, cloaked in shadow, I make out Johanna Mason nestled in the arms of Gale Hawthorne, the pair lazily kissing. My fellow Victor from 7 looks thoroughly delighted by the attentions.

On a bottom bunk at the far end of the room, just off from where her family is sitting, Katniss has come upon a flashlight and is currently entertaining Buttercup with its beam, watching the cat chase the circle of light from wall to floor and back again. Next to her, Pollux rests a hand on Katniss's knee and she smiles at him softly. Observing her, Proximo finally stands, presses a kiss into Belle's temple, and wanders over to his girlfriend's eldest daughter. He points to the empty space besides her and Pollux.

"Mind if I sit?"

Katniss peers at him for a moment before shrugging and Proximo cautiously lowers himself beside her. Silence reigns between the pair for a moment, before I hear Katniss mumble out:

"I saw how you stayed right with my mother when we were all evacuating."

"Of course I would," the former trainer smiles at her.

My goddaughter studies him for a long time, and then manages: "Thank you. And… you have my blessing. Just promise me you'll take care of her."

Proximo beams gratefully. "I appreciate your approval, Katniss. I know you care for your mother very much. And I know you've been under a lot of pressure lately. But let me tell you a secret: you don't have to protect everybody. And in the case of your mom, it's her job to protect you, Katniss – not the other way around. Although, I admire you for wanting to anyway."

Katniss smiles at him tentatively. From where he is standing next to me and huddled with Cecelia, Brutus chooses this precise moment to insert himself into the conversation. Striding over to the bottom bunk, he nudges Pollux closer into Katniss's side to make room before lowering himself down onto the mattress; the bedsprings creak in protest of his weight.

Katniss cranes her neck around Pollux to glower at the former Career. She clearly hasn't forgotten how he and his allies tried to kill her and her friends in the Quarter Quell arena. "What do _you_ want?"

Brutus takes less offense to my goddaughter's hostility than I had hoped he would. My old mentor just shrugs. "Nothing. It's just that we've never been properly introduced." He sticks out a meaty palm. "Brutus Barsetti, Victor of the 48th Hunger Games."

Katniss shakes his hand warily. She doesn't say nice to meet you – with her and Brutus's history, how awkward would that be?

"How are you down here anyway? Aren't you supposed to be locked up?"

"I have colleagues in high places," Brutus smiles at me, and then winks at Cecelia, though the mirth is mostly reserved for his lover from District 8. "Your godmother sprung me so I wouldn't get obliterated to smithereens."

"How charitable of her," Katniss quips. "I doubt I would have done the same." I smirk deliciously at this, but once again, Brutus doesn't seem to mind.

A bout of silence permeates the strange bedfellows on that bottom bunk, until Brutus finally breaks it with: "You know, if you rebels hadn't short-circuited the arena and cut those Games early, I totally would have won again."

Cecelia smiles softly, giggling behind her hand. I do a face-plant into my palm, shaking my head.


	43. Stare Into the Void

**Chapter 43: Stare Into the Void**

The bombings last for the better part of three days.

As soon as President Coin gives the all-clear, after many hours of not feeling any tremors from up above, the whole of District 13 emerges from the bunker and ascends the many floors up to our living and work quarters. Aside from a thick coating of dust and a slight ceiling cave-in within one of our Command Ops centers, there is virtually no significant damage. We are so far underground that, even when striking no-man's land, the Capitol's bombs and their aftershocks would never have reached us as far down as we were. Still, it was a close one, and we're all just thankful to be alive.

Peeta's critical warning – clearly done at great risk to himself – elicits grudging praise from most of the people of Thirteen, even those who had previously branded him a traitor. After a closed-door session in which it is rumored that Coin spends an exorbitant amount of hours playing and replaying my son's last interview and the warning he gave, the President finally agrees to the last outlying condition Katniss leveled. Peeta will be granted full immunity, if and when he should ever be recovered. My goddaughter sees that Coin makes it explicitly clear that Peeta will never set foot in the district's dungeons or be treated in any way like a prisoner. Coin agrees. Good. I don't want my son to be so much as next-door neighbors with Brutus… who is now back in solitary confinement, much to Cecelia's consternation. But if Coin is ever going to punish us for saving a POW's life, she makes no moves to reprimand either Cecelia or me.

But the truly stunning announcement is Coin's decision to authorize the rescue mission that Proximo presented to her months ago. The President taps the ex-Training Center official to assemble and lead a team into the heart of the Capitol to extract Peeta. On a recommendation from Katniss, Proximo chooses Gale as one of his first recruits. Eager to see battle, the strongly built Seam man accepts.

Needless to say, Belle is less than thrilled about her lover risking his life. Where Gale is concerned, Johanna Mason likes it even less. After one planning session, Gale, Katniss and I emerge from High Command to find the female Victor from 7 waiting for us. Coin had just laid out our timetable for the mission; she expects for Proximo and his team to be ready to ship out within the next week – apparently, we are waiting on something from Beetee, and that it will involve Katniss and me and possibly Finnick. Coin assured us that this piece of the plan will be presented to us at our next meeting tomorrow.

The normally irascible axe girl is unusually soft as she floats to Gale's side. "What is it?" she asks, peering up into his face.

Gale sighs, running a hand over his face. "The President made clear this mission is risky. It has to be a dead-of-night operation and conducted efficiently for it to even have an outside chance of working. Even then, the probability of being caught remains…. significant."

Johanna looks stricken. I know she once said that no one can hurt her, because there is no one left whom she loves, but her expression now makes clear: she cares for Gale and his safety. Deeply. She squeezes his palm, and Gale sends her his most confident smirk. "It'll be all right, Jo."

"But what if it isn't?" she searches his eyes.

"What makes you think it won't be?" Gale's grin broadens, trying to put his girlfriend (at least I presume she is his girlfriend – they've been kissing like they're together) at ease.

Johanna shrugs, her big, brown eyes glistening with tears. "A feeling. I used to think everything would be all right, as long as I had control. Then Snow made it clear who's _really_ in charge."

Gale tenderly brushes her russet bangs out of her eyes. "Your family?" Evidently, she has opened up to him about this. I only know the broadest brushstrokes of the story myself: when Johanna first won the Games almost five years ago, President Snow predictably tried to whore her out the way he did Cashmere Delacroix. The way he did Finnick. The way he did me. Johanna bravely refused, and in response, Snow had her family murdered. Even then, Jo was never put on the prostitution rotation; perhaps Snow feared what she might do to his clientele. The whole sorry episode might seem like it ended in a draw, but I can tell who really won – it has clearly haunted Johanna, who is now trembling.

Glancing up at Gale lovingly, Johanna suddenly blasts out:

"Will you marry me?"

Katniss and I look at each other, doing our best to keep from gawping in shock. We've joked about possibly making an honest woman out of Johanna Mason, but _this_ …. still, I have to admit, her proposing first is classic Jo.

Gale is blinking rather rapidly at her question. Then, beaming, he takes her by the waist, pulls her against him and kisses her passionately. Johanna melts into it instantly.

"Yes," Gale murmurs against her lips. "Let's do it before I have to leave."

Johanna gasps with joy and leaps into his arms, climbing him like a tree. The couple staggers back into the far wall, heatedly kissing and beginning to rock their hips against each other.

Katniss and I eye each other again. "We should… give them…" My goddaughter splutters uncomfortably.

"Yeah, yeah, we should go." And doing an about-face, we run as silently as we can down the hall so the newly engaged couple can be alone.

* * *

We watch as Johanna and Gale bring their faces quite close to each other, embrace and kiss deeply, causing the small congregation of close family and friends to burst into applause. Immediately, all three of Gale's younger siblings – Rory, Vick and little Posy – rush forward to tackle their big brother, interrupting the wedding kiss. The new Mrs. Hawthorne doesn't seem to mind, throwing her head back and laughing musically.

When Gale and Johanna had gone to Coin asking for help throwing together a wedding, the President hadn't lifted a finger, and even objected loudly, claiming that throwing lavish parties was well outside District 13's budget. The newlyweds simply went ahead and mounted a ceremony their way, enlisting help from comrades to push some mess hall tables aside and clear a space in the common area one evening after supper.

Connor Murphy, Johanna's only remaining fellow Victor from 7 and who has made quite a name for himself in the Mechanic's Garage of Thirteen, escorts Johanna down the aisle to give her away. Dalton, a former cowhand from District 10 who is also an ordained minister (a risky title, as all religious observances are strictly forbidden in Panem; Dalton explains to me how he self-taught himself benedictions in the ancient, forbidden languages) blesses and marries the couple. Gale and Johanna decided to blend marriage traditions from both their homelands to feel that they are now truly man and wife. Johanna was quite taken with the concept of a Toasting, listening attentively as Gale and Katniss had shown her how to do it. I was proud of Katniss for making this effort, not only because she and Johanna have not always gotten along, but also because such a tutorial would surely remind her painfully of Peeta. And indeed, she got emotional one time, and to her fellow Victor's credit, Johanna noticed and was genuinely comforting.

As we watch now, Gale and Johanna feed each other a piece of burnt bread, compliments of my husband's baking skills. Giggling, they kiss again, Dalton chortling at how they are so eager.

The next part of the ceremony, according to Johanna, is the silliest part – the District 7 marriage custom is to traditionally chop down a sapling and lay it flat on the ground. Then the bride and groom are to jump over it when prompted. I remember Chaff telling me how his people in neighboring District 11 do something similar, a tradition that apparently dates back to the slave-holding days of the ancient American South. Unfortunately, we are deep underground and beneath a no-man's land, just bombed and with no healthy trunks to speak of, much less to cut down. Luckily, someone manages to find a long piece of lumber from the Wood-Working warehouse that suits Johanna's purposes nicely.

It does appear a little ridiculous, and much laughter is involved, when Gale and then Johanna have to "jump the log." Johanna laughs as she lifts up the skirts of her simple white dress – something borrowed from Hazelle, her new mother-in-law – and hops over the piece of lumber. Gale tugs his new wife close and kisses her again to cheers and wolf-whistles; closing her eyes, Johanna casts her bouquet of wilting daises and weeds aside. Annie Cresta is the lucky person to catch it.

Eli Cartwright – moving slower these days but with a face as nicely aged as a bottle of wine – strikes up a tune on his fiddle so the bride and groom can have their first dance, and the evening ends with Gale carrying Johanna across the threshold of her apartment while we folk from Twelve sing the traditional wedding song.

The next morning, Johanna has to watch her new husband depart on a high-stakes mission.

Beyond being clearly nervous about leaving his blushing bride, Gale is also ticked off that he has to take orders from Proximo, whom he clearly doesn't trust. The hostility is on open display as Gale complains to Katniss about her mother's boyfriend leading the team… even when Proximo is standing right there. Neither Gale nor Johanna has ever cared about things like tact. They're plainspoken people, they speak as they find - I guess they really are a perfect match.

I am immensely pleased when Katniss comes to her likely future stepfather's defense. "He knows the target better than anyone, Gale! Auntie and I have been in the Training Center – it's like a labyrinth. If you want to get in and get back out with Peeta alive, you _need_ Proximo!"

"And how do you know he won't guide us right into a trap?" Gale snaps. "I don't trust him!"

Katniss turns to look at Proximo with a small smile. "I trust him." Proximo blinks, and even appears to be emotional, deeply moved.

Gale stews for a moment more before grumbling, "Fine. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to say goodbye to my wife." He crosses over to where Johanna is waiting and kisses her rather indecently. She kisses him back fiercely and wraps him in a tight hug.

"You'd better come home to me…. you hear?"

Gale pecks her lips one last time and heads for the plane. Drifting over to us, I take her hand in solidarity. After hugging Proximo goodbye, Katniss joins us and we watch the hovercraft lift off and zoom out of the hangar bay.

* * *

Not an hour after Proximo, Gale and their team have left, most of the Mockingjay's team is aboveground for the first time since we shipped out the District 8 weeks ago.

No-Man's Land is quiet, mist hanging thick in the air; Boggs and an advance team have checked and cleared the place of any sign of radiation from the Capitol's bombing.

However, as Cressida and Pollux, the camera crew, lead us down into a small valley, Katniss pulls up short and claps a hand to her mouth. The entire valley where we are to film is covered in white roses.

Almost immediately, both my goddaughter and I double over, hacking and wheezing from the foul smell of Snow's little gift. Katniss has a worse gag reflex then I do, she is practically dry heaving, and soon, she and I both feel warm hands rubbing the smalls of our backs. Finnick is bent over us, studying us with sympathy and companionable concern.

Beetee's plan is to have Katniss and Finnick film a propo together – a longer one than the usual 15-second, 30-second ones Katniss has been churning out with ever-improving quality. In it, they will have to come up with something that will spark the Capitol – especially Snow's - interest, to distract them from when Proximo and his team are breaking into the Training Center. Finnick had been the one to come up with the idea – secrets. Lots of them. Finnick has acquired many dark secrets from the Capitol elite over a decade-long prostitution career. Not really having many secrets, Katniss told me she has one thing she will contribute; she only hopes that it won't tip Snow off, which tells me that whatever she is about to say has something to do with my son.

Beetee's hope is for us to film all of this preferably in one take, bring the footage back down to him in Weapons Development, and he will prepare it to hack into the Capitol mandatory programming this evening… which should be right around the time that Proximo's team will be entering Capitol airspace.

Sadly, Snow has, either knowingly or not, ruined our scouted filming site. I don't know if Katniss will be able to do what she needs to do surrounded by dying white roses.

"It's OK…. It's OK…. don't focus on the roses. Don't even think about Snow. When you're filming, focus on me. Just on me," I tell her quietly. Blinking back tears, she nods and I smile gently, guiding her over to a rock in the center of this little dip of a valley. Katniss takes a seat on it, not deigning to glance at the roses scattered about, and I nod to Cressida. The digital communications director had asked me if I wanted to divulge all my secrets, but I declined. It would mean talking about being whored out. Talking about Haymitch… that would be far too painful, even if Katniss already knows all (or at least most) of this.

When the red light goes on and Cressida signals her, Katniss begins:

"I first met Peeta when we were small, on our first day of school. He walked right up to me and told me he was going to marry me. I didn't believe him then, and it wasn't until he first kissed me, the morning of our first Reaping, that I thought he might truly love me." She laughs a little – a rare and beautiful sound. "The first time we kissed, I pushed him away. But really, I didn't want to. I was just scared. It wasn't until we were 14 that I started kissing him back."

Everyone in the clearing is enraptured. It is so silent, you could hear a pin drop.

When Katniss finishes her spiel, Finnick takes her place on the rock. Unlike her, he actually uses the props around him, plucking one white rose and running the stem between his fingers.

"And now we come to our favorite subject: Coriolanus Snow. Such a young man when he rose to power. Such a clever one to keep it. How did he do it, you might ask? I'll tell you in a word: poison."

And Snow is not the only one on whom Finnick has the goods. He divulges truly nauseating secrets from some of the cream of the crop of Capitol society. By the time he finishes, Cressida has just about run out of film, and it takes a minute for Pollux to sign, _Cut_. Cressida has to speak the directive, almost to remind herself to turn the camera off.

We managed to do it all in one take. We hurry the footage back underground to Beetee, who immediately sets to work. Then he tells us to wait in the mess hall for the evening meal.

At dinnertime, Capitol programming comes on. I already know this is because Beetee has "let in" Capitol servers to our communication channels. Once he has them…. he springs the trap. An address from President Snow is hijacked by Katniss and Finnick divulging not only their deepest secrets, but also everyone else's, including those of the President. Beetee fights fiercely for control and then keeps it for well over forty minutes. The entire propo is shown before the Capitol finally kicks him off their servers.

At the end of the meal, we dash up to High Command and President Coin lets us in right away. She is beaming the most genuine smile I have ever seen from her.

"Target extracted. Well done, soldiers," she nods to Katniss and Finnick as her advisers erupt into applause and cheers.

* * *

Proximo, Gale and the others land safely back in the hangar bay by the next morning. As I enter the bustling space, I can see and hear Johanna and Gale, cloaked in shadow and moaning as they make love in a darkened corner.

"Auntie!" I turn to see Katniss running to me, just as I am approaching Boggs to ask what no doubt is also on my goddaughter's lips. "Is he…?"

Boggs smiles at us both. "Mr. Mellark has been taken to the medical ward for treatment. He is banged up in a few places, and a little disoriented still, but otherwise appears to be all right."

A beaming smile of happiness has come over my goddaughter's face. "Would you like to see him?" I lightly touch her arm. She nods her head dumbly, and I smirk. "Come on, then."

We head down to the medical ward, and are directed, oddly, to the psychiatric evaluation sector where I used to visit Annie.

"Be gentle with him," Boggs advises us before admitting us. "He's had quite a time of it."

Katniss and I enter a room with a one-way window lining one wall. Circling the medical cot, I look upon my son, alive and physically here, with me.

His shoulders are hunched, and his blonde hair has darkened a little so it is more sandy-blonde in color. There is a black eye over his right iris. Scratch marks here and there. He appears gaunt and sullen.

Next to me, Katniss is gazing at Peeta as though she has never seen him before. For his part, Peeta studies her, confused.

A beaming smile of hope and besotted love emanating from her, Katniss reaches out to caress him.

Peeta reaches out too…. to wrap his hands around her throat.

The two ex-tributes stagger back into the far wall, and I gasp in horror as I try to leap into the way to break it up. Katniss cannot get any air with which to cry out, not that it matters – I do most of the yelling.

"Peeta, what are you…? – Peeta Haymitch Mellark – _stop it_!"

I think fast. Seizing the free IV stand and wielding it like a staff, I clop Peeta over the head with it. I do so regretfully, and try not to whack him too hard. Peeta groans and slumps forward, but doesn't turn and attack me, much less let go.

I hear the hydraulic door opening, and shouts of, "Peeta, NO!" Then, my other three boys – Danny, Jonadab and Rye – tackle their loved one all at once, pulling Peeta away from Katniss even while he thrashes under their tangle of limbs. Katniss slinks to the floor, coughing and wheezing as her lungs breathe in air. Angry, red marks are around her throat.

Danny has no choice. Pinning Peeta in a wrestler's hold my littlest has known since he was ten, my husband punches his youngest son in the head, knocking him out cold.


	44. When I Touch You, Mutt

**Chapter 44: When I Touch You, Mutt**

We are all seated dejectedly in the viewing room adjacent to Peeta's hospital chamber, on the other side of the one-way window. We can see in and look upon Peeta… or, this bizarre imposter in place of Peeta, but he cannot see us.

Katniss has her face buried in her lap and is weeping uncontrollably, Belle and Prim on either side of her and with their arms wrapped around her. The sight of the Everdeen girls in an embrace is heartwarming, the intimacy of it clearly familiar to them; Prim whispers to me that they cried like this all day the morning after the Reading of the Card for the Quell. Proximo is leaning against the doorjamb, heartbroken on behalf of Katniss, but makes no moves to join the little group. I have to appreciate and respect his restraint. Proximo will always have to walk a fine line and exercise good judgment on what will be private moments for the family he no doubt hopes to one day join, and which moments he can be included in. In this moment, Katniss needs the familiar, although she and Proximo's relationship has improved leaps and bounds since the night of the Capitol bombings of Thirteen.

"It's… It's like he doesn't know me!" Katniss blubbers. "Like he doesn't even love me!"

"That's not true, Katty!" Prim cries, lacing her fingers through those of her sister.

"No, she's right," Finnick, who is seated astride a backwards chair after being called to the ward by me, states. "There's a guy in there who looks just like Peeta Mellark, but I have no idea who he really is. None of us do."

Perched in his wheelchair and pushed right up against the glass, Beetee Latier is stroking the light scruff of his well-trimmed beard. "I think, my dear Finnick, that we are splitting hairs here. That boy is Peeta Mellark…. except he is the Peeta Mellark the Capitol wants to see, and wants _us_ to see. The Peeta Mellark who could be used as a homicidal weapon to bring down the Mockingjay."

I frown at the aging Victor hard. "What exactly are you implying?" I state carefully. "That my son is in the throes of some…. split personality disorder?"

"That is actually a good way of putting it, yes." Cecelia Rheys is huddled in one corner, for once not sucking face with Brutus down in the dungeons. Her voice is very quiet. "I… I developed a split personality after leaving the arena. A persona I call Victoria. She… she helped - _helps_ \- me cope, mostly with being on the whore circuit once I won." In all the years I have known the fierce young woman from Eight, I have never heard any of this.

Passing a small axe between her hands, her husband's arm looped over her shoulder, Johanna Mason-Hawthorne frowns. "Why are referring to this Victoria in the third person? If I'm following this correctly, you're her. She's you."

"Yes…. and no," Cecelia hedges. "It is possible to compartmentalize both parts of yourself. One part lies dormant while the other is active…"

"… but while split personality disorder might be a helpful simile, Miss Rheys, it does not precisely define Peeta's current state," Beetee voices. "It is not as though Peeta has developed a completely alternate identity. Rather, his darkest impulses and fears seem to have been nurtured and cultivated over a long period of time so that his first instinct is to act on them." He turns to address the room at large. "We all have light and darkness inside of us; most of us suppress our darkest tendencies. All the Victors in this room: I am sure you can understand that while we were competing in the Games, we had no choice but to let our darkest tendencies out in order to win. But once we did, we have always been able to suppress them again. They are our arena instincts, you might call them." He rolls his wheelchair over to the light switch by the door, between Cecelia and Proximo. "Think of it as a light switch – on, off." He flicks the switch for emphasis, and the room is plunged into darkness for a fraction of a second. "Peeta's arena instincts – the instinct to self-defend, the instinct to kill – have been awakened, just as they would be if he were in the Games."

"But he's _not_ in the Games," Katniss whimpers, puffy-eyed. "Not anymore."

"But the arena never truly leaves you, does it?" Beetee cocks an eyebrow. "We can all repress that part of ourselves. Unfortunately, for Peeta, he has been conditioned so that he can't. He is in the darkness, as it were, all the time. And it would seem that that darkness is strongest whenever he is in Katniss's presence, or whenever she is so much as mentioned." He strokes his beard again. "Believe it or not, I've seen this before. The Capitol has perfected the practice. It is called hijacking."

A deep shudder courses through me. I know it is possible to hijack a vehicle – a train, or a plane, or a boat. You can even hijack entire computer systems, as Beetee has done while waging a digital war against the Capitol. But to hijack a _person_ ….? How is such a thing possible?

The man from 3 is now mostly addressing Dannel and me on behalf of our son, as if he is a grief counselor, and we have already lost Peeta. Katniss is crying again, like she has lost yet another person she loves to death. In a way, we are all moving about as though someone has died. While the medium of that loss is not exactly the same, the pain is still acute and familiar, pointing back to that visceral emotional memory one feels when someone dear passes away.

"Can't we… hijack him back?" Jonadab croaks, his azure eyes inundated with tears.

"Possibly," Beetee dips his head. "But it will take effort, and it will take time. And research, most of all. I will have to dive deep into the Capitol's biological weapons systems, and the bodies of work on such a subject are quite dense. But I promise you, the real Peeta Mellark is in there – and all we have to do is get him out."

"How?" Rye bemoans.

"That, unfortunately, will have to be conducted mostly through experimentation," Beetee informs us gravely. "If my hypothesis is correct, Peeta has been conditioned to believe in an alternate reality, shaped in the Capitol's image. I suspect that much of that alternate reality revolves around Katniss. To him, she is something she really isn't: a threat. An assassin. An insurrectionist – pick your noun. He has been brainwashed quite literally to believe she is the enemy. So for her safety, we must keep Katniss away from an enemy combatant, at least until there is perceived progress on the front of deprogramming."

Katniss predictably takes deep offense to this. "I am _not_ Peeta's enemy!"

"No one is saying you are, my dear. But to Peeta, that is unfortunately the case – for now." Beetee pauses for a moment, deep in thought. "There will also be some reading into history that will be required. Cults are as old as the American state and even going back further – there are cults that affect Panem even now. And it is possible for adherents to cults to undergo reeducation. Such was the case in the early 2020s, over a millennia ago, regarding the followers of an ancient American president." Beetee fumbles in search of something on his phone, then holds out the image on the screen to show us. "This man, right here."

One look, and a memory a quarter of a century old comes roaring back, of standing with Snow in that oval-shaped office and looking up at the portrait of an orange-skinned man with an ugly sneer.

 _Donald Trump…. You could say he's a hero of mine_ , I hear Snow's voice echo in my head.

"This is the blueprint," Beetee tells us. "The deprogramming of the extremist, ancient American right was long, arduous and wide-ranging, but it was completed. Although much broader in scope, with hundreds of thousands, millions of individuals trapped in an alternate reality on a dizzying array of topics and issues, the similarity to Peeta's predicament here is that this fake reality revolved around one person. This man - Donald Trump. Trump. Katniss Everdeen. They are the suns around which revolves an entire solar system of lies and half-truths that don't actually exist. The key, I believe, is going to be Peeta's memories, specifically of Katniss. I have reason to postulate that these memories may have been tampered with. We will likely have to re-educate Peeta with the real memories of Katniss, and replace the tainted ones. The road will be daunting, but looking back to all the cults of history – Jonestown. David Koresh and the Branch-Davidians. Sun Myung Moon and the Unification Church. Scientology. Trump and his MAGA movement – and their ultimate downfalls, we know it can be done." He lets out a long breath. "Any questions?"

Katniss gazes at her lost love, strapped to a gurney with leather restraints. When she shifts her eyes to Beetee, they are steely with determination and anger.

"When do we start?"

* * *

Everyone has a task to do. Though there are few of them, the best psychiatric doctors in Thirteen are assigned to my son's case. Beetee holes himself up in his study, reading and taking notes on cults and deprogramming and brainwashing and reeducation. At one point, bringing him his lunch after he skipped the meal entirely, I see him poring over a tome describing the imprisonment tactics of an ancient people called the Vietcong. Eventually, Proximo and then Gale join him, significantly reducing the older Victor's workload.

Much to her despair and consternation, Katniss is ordered to stay far, far away from Peeta until we deem it safe. Just for good measure, we order Prim and Belle Everdeen to stay away as well, as even people so closely related to Katniss might be a trigger that could set my boy off. How many degrees of separation required before Peeta can interact with another person safely is difficult to guess, and unfortunately carries some risk as we send in people to sit and talk with him, after careful vetting.

Cecelia Rheys turns out to be a very helpful visitor, as Peeta really only has one memory of her – the closing moments of the Quarter Quell – that actually has nothing to do with Katniss. The Victor from Eight now splits her time between visiting Brutus and visiting my son, both of them prisoners, whether by physical order or within their own minds. While Beetee did state the simile was not exact in principle, Cecelia's own experience with a split personality disorder is quite helpful as well. She doesn't raise such issues with Peeta directly, but he soon finds her a soothing and all together pleasant presence.

My own visits with my baby boy have to be spaced out intermittently. This is a point that I discover quickly as in our first moments alone since before the Quell, Peeta lashes out with anger at perceived wrongs I have committed against him, some of them valid, but most of them not. He is just as angry and just as convinced as Katniss used to be that I knew more about the arena break-out than I really did; unlike Katniss, however, it is harder for him to believe me when I say I did not. Even an hour alone with this boy who I carried, who I nursed, can leave me feeling utterly drained and exhausted. My fellow Victors help me as best they can; Johanna, Finnick and Annie all join Cecelia in sitting with Peeta for a spell, swapping stories. Johanna is actually the first one to come up with the game she likes to call Real or Not Real. It is part-quiz show, part guessing game that is designed to help Peeta sort through all the bullshit as much as it is helping us do the same. Some of the claims he makes, as though they are absolute truths, defy all credulity. But instead of berating him for all the misguided beliefs he holds (and this is very uncharacteristic, coming from Jo), Johanna is of the opinion that we need to combat this misinformation through understanding as much as through Beetee's science. And on the whole, it is very revealing to learn what Peeta still knows to be true as much as it is revealing to learn what he _thinks_ to be true, but really isn't. I first kissed Katniss when we were twelve – Real or not Real? Real. Katniss is a mutt programmed by the government to seduce me and eventually kill me – Real or Not Real? …. Not Real. Finnick and Annie soon learn the rules of the game and try to help as well – the couple from 4 are especially helpful in getting Peeta to sort out his memories from the Games. Not only were they allies with him in the Quarter Quell arena, but they also mentored for Katniss and Peeta's first Games as well, so they were first-hand witnesses to the goings on during the 74th Games.

And speaking of the couple from District 4, it isn't long before they announce they are engaged and wish to be married as soon as possible. President Coin is about as enthused about the prospect of another wedding as she was about Gale and Johanna's, and refuses to offer any support. If Finnick and Annie are that eager to exchange vows, they must do so on their own time and money. This time, however, many of the people in Thirteen push back. We have all had our fill of things to be sad about – I was heartened to see how many people are crestfallen over the plight of my son, even those who didn't always trust him. After months of isolation underground, we all are in desperate need of something to celebrate. It is only when Plutarch and Beetee come up with the idea to film the wedding ceremony as a kind of positive propo (mostly to drive Snow nuts) does Coin come to understand the merits of holding a nuptials in the midst of wartime. She offers a venue and decorations for the party, but her frugality wins out when she isn't quite so generous in devoting any monetary funds to the project. No matter. We make do with what we have.

Johanna loans Annie the simple white dress she wore at her own wedding; in return, Annie makes Johanna her Matron of Honor. The move surprises me – I have heard the rumors that Finnick and Johanna were intimate back in the day, allegedly to cope with the ordeal of his being whored out, and her whole family being murdered. There is even some gossip that Capitol elites bought Finnick and Johanna as a package deal, paying big sesterces to watch them fuck, which I know is probably not true – Johanna was never on the prostitution circuit. What certainly _is_ true is that Finnick and Johanna have always been close friends, and I imagine that the strength of their bond (both in the arena and out of it) would have made Annie a little jealous. No matter what is, to borrow a turn of phrase, Real or Not Real, I have to admire Annie for looking past all this in making this gesture of goodwill. And Johanna, for her part, seems quite touched to have been asked.

But I have to credit the real breakthrough as coming from my husband.

Danny becomes convinced that if we were to encourage Peeta to rediscover things he likes to do, he might rediscover key parts of his true self. The obvious example, of course, would be baking, and the wedding of the two District 4 Victors grants our son the perfect opportunity to wield this skill. Provided he is kept under heavy watch in the kitchens, both by guards and by his dad, Annie formally commissions Peeta to bake her and Finnick a wedding cake. When Peeta's blue eyes go huge with excitement, and he almost frantically asks for pen and paper to mock up designs, I feel the first glimmer of hope since he was first delivered to Thirteen.

I decide not to tell Katniss about Peeta's contribution just yet.

The day of the ceremony finally arrives. Annie looks immaculate in Johanna's old dress, and Finnick is dashing in pressed slacks and a sailor's tunic. District 4 has some of the most novel marriage traditions of all – as the rings and vows are exchanged, a golden fishing net (woven by some of Thirteen's finest seamstresses) is draped over the couple. Annie circles her groom in a very deliberate pattern, and Finnick does the same for his bride, while the rest of the congregation sings a sea shanty. The tune itself is a little silly, and keeps mentioning something about a whale:

" _Soon may the Wellerman come, to bring us sugar and tea and rum. Soon when the tonguing is done, we'll take our leave and go!_ " And then everyone lets out a full-throated grunt at the end ("Huh!"). Yeah, it's a little weird, but Finnick and Annie are deliriously happy over it, and this is their day.

When Dalton proclaims the pair husband and wife, everyone breaks into cheers and wolf-whistles as Finnick and Annie lean in and share a sweet, chaste kiss. Then everyone breaks off into groups to dance.

Waltzing in Danny's arms, I notice Pollux hand off filming duties to Cressida, while he approaches Katniss and asks her for a dance. Katniss shyly accepts in sign language, and the pair engage in a slow waltz, followed by a folk song that has Katniss flicking her skirts while Pollux circles her, clapping in rhythm.

The piece de resistance that causes the reception to sway to a grinding halt is when a truly astounding wedding cake is brought out on a table.

The blue icing is shaped to look like actual waves, with little boats bobbing on the three tiers. Annie drags Finnick by the hand over to Peeta's cake, gushing over the detail and bemoaning how it is almost too good to eat. Pausing in her dancing with Pollux, Katniss is also drawn to the confectionary triumph, and I know she recognizes my son's handiwork. I drift over to her side.

"He made this, didn't he?" Her voice is quiet, tinged with sadness. I know she has been feeling left out by her inability to visit, even as the other Victors have been able to talk with Peeta. "How did he do it?"

"You'd have to ask Dannel. He told me that Peeta would sometimes have his concentration broken up, but he would fight to keep the hallucinations at bay. Watching him…. he seemed almost like before." Then I remember a request Peeta made of me, on my last visit before I had to leave for the ceremony. "Peeta says he'd like to see you."

Katniss stares at me, trying not to hope. She bites her lip. "Do you think we're ready?"

I admire her caution. "Beetee thinks we'll have to try sometime. Not to worry – he has a plan."

"OK," Katniss nods eagerly, taking my hand. "Let's go – right now."

Beetee's plan is to have Katniss enter Peeta's room alone. He will be restrained under the leather straps on the gurney. Katniss will be on a wire so we can hear everything while hidden behind the one-way window. If at any point Peeta becomes hostile or lashes out, Katniss is to leave the room immediately.

"Is all of that clear?" Beetee asks Katniss as he finishes hooking her up to the earpiece.

Katniss nods solemnly. "Yes."

The Victor from 3 nods. "OK. Maysilee, if you would come with me. I will signal you, Katniss, when you are to enter."

Beetee and I, along with Boggs and Proximo, enter the observation room. Beetee raises a finger to his matching earpiece.

"And…. go." Katniss pushes the hydraulic door open and enters the holding room. Peeta freezes upon seeing her.

Katniss gives him a weak smile. "Hi."

"Hello," Peeta manages back, voice guarded. He keeps perfectly still, though – not that he would be able to move anyway, with his restraints, but still, the lack of motion is encouraging.

There is an incredibly awkward pause, as my son and my goddaughter both glance at each other, then just as quickly look away. It is like they are two schoolchildren in love meeting for the first time, unable to flirt or even talk with each other.

"I, um…. I just came from Finnick and Annie's wedding," Katniss stammers, her face flushing. "It was a lovely ceremony."

"How was it?" Peeta asks kindly, thrilled for the happiness of his friends.

"Everything they hoped for," Katniss expresses. Her throat wobbles a little as she chokes up. "That cake you made was beautiful. Annie didn't want to slice it."

Peeta actually beams. "High praise."

"Yeah. All the waves, they were so real…"

"Waves." A dark storm cloud passes over Peeta's expression, and I tense.

"Get her out of there," I whisper.

"Steady…" Beetee rumbles, eyes not moving from the window's panes.

"You tried to drown me in the ten o'clock wave – real or not real?"

My heart stops. I forgot to coach Katniss on the game Johanna and the rest of us developed. Thankfully, she is a quick study, especially when thrown off the deep end into unfamiliar situations.

"Not real. We were never near that wedge in the clock arena. We just saw the wave as the tide rolled in."

A beat as Peeta absorbs this. Then:

"You're lying." The tone is accusing.

Katniss frowns, wrinkling her nose. "No, I'm not."

Peeta appraises her up and down, clad in her blue Reaping dress. An ugly sneer comes over his face. "Well, you're a piece of work, aren't you?"

Katniss reels back like my son just slapped her, her grey eyes swimming with tears. She steams, her mouth drawn in a thin line.

"I don't even know why I bothered to come." She is turning away when Peeta's voice – softer this time – stops her.

"Katniss….. I remember the cave. How we… made love."

Katniss freezes dead. The tears are now rolling down her cheeks. A tiny noise escapes her; it might be a sob. "Yes," she whispers.

"Was…. was that real?"

Katniss whimpers. "Oh, yes, Peeta… it was. I did love you. I love you still."

She catches herself just in time, but Peeta doesn't refute her. Katniss's tears are a torrent now. "I…. I have to go. Prim will be wondering where I am…"

She is halfway to the door when the leather restraints snap. Peeta actually is strong enough to _break the leather straps_ holding him down and is out of the bed quick as lightning. Katniss freezes when she feels his presence behind her, his large and calloused hands ghosting over her hips. Unconsciously, she leans into his touch with a sigh, until she remembers where she is, and turns to face him.

"Peeta, what are you…?"

He silences her with a kiss, and Katniss instantly melts into it. My heart is pounding hard in my ribcage from sheer terror, as I remember one of Peeta's more crazy conspiracy theories, about Katniss being a Capitol weapon designed to seduce him before eventually killing him. But what if it is actually _he_ who is the seducer and potential murderer?

Katniss's eyes pop open in the next instant, as she remembers where she is and who she is kissing, and she twists away. "Don't!" she spits, squeaks, wiping at her mouth.

A cocksure glint has appeared in Peeta eyes as his hands now float up to steal around Katniss's waist. Float over the rounded curves of her breasts, tweaking the nipples that I can see rapidly pebbling. "Do you like it when I touch you, mutt?"

Wait a second… _mutt_? Peeta thinks Katniss is a _mutt_? Oh, shit…..

Katniss is too aroused to focus much attention on the epithet. Her eyes are rolling into the back of her head, she is sagging into Peeta and panting. "Yes…." she hisses. "Ohhhhh yes….."

"You want to fuck me, don't you, Katniss?" Peeta croons in her ear, his fingers rolling back the hem of her blue dress, bunching up the fabric around her hips. His fingers dip down to touch the wetness pooling between her legs.

"I…. I…." Katniss is stammering, and she has to stifle a plaintive _moan_ behind her hand. "I don't know."

Peeta cocks his head at this. "You don't _know_?" His timbre rises a bit and I'm afraid he is going to explode.

"Mayday, mayday, Katniss, get out of there!" I nearly wrench Beetee's earpiece headset off his skull, but it gets stuck as I bellow the directive into Katniss's matching earpiece.

Katniss finally gets out of Peeta's grip and turns to face him. Her breasts are heaving under her bodice and her face is red-flushed, even as her eyes shine with terror. "Oh, just fuck me or kill me and get it over with already. Whatever you want from me, go ahead…. Take it…"

Peeta gazes at her, frowning. "Katniss, if you don't want to do this…"

"No!" Katniss yelps. With a speed and strength that must astonish Peeta as much as it does me, she throws him back down onto the hospital cot, pins him there and straddles him. "I want this. I need this. I do."

If she were smart, she would strap Peeta back in the leather restraints…. until I remember that those restraints are now broken, and I don't even know if Katniss is into BDSM anyway.

Divesting Peeta of his trousers, Katniss sinks down onto him, groaning into his shoulder when they join. Peeta's moan matches hers, and resting her palms lightly on his chest, my goddaughter begins to bounce up and down as she makes love to him. Growling, Peeta grips her hips and thrusts up into her with abandon.

Boggs is flabbergasted. "What the hell am I watching?"

"Possibly a witness to murder if he ends up on top!" I snap. "With his strength, he could kill her! He might even have her exactly where he wants her!"

This causes Beetee to clue in, throwing off his headset. "We gotta get her out of there!"

"You heard him, fellas – open the door! Open the door!" I cry, and we all scramble out of the observation room and dash for the hydraulic door. Proximo tugs at it.

"It's locked!" he screams.

"The keycard, Boggs – get the keycard!" I am screaming shrilly by this point. Boggs is digging through his pockets like a madman. From the earpiece now hanging off Beetee's body, we can hear moans, grunts and squeaks indicating the wild sex still occurring in the next room. Then, Katniss's voice becomes clear.

"Peeta, I'm…. I'm going to…. I'm gonna cum – OH, FUCK!"

Peeta appears to let out a yell, there is a creak of bedsprings and then – silence. Stillness. We all freeze, watching the hydraulic door and hearing sounds come from the other side. The rustle of fabric. The sound of footsteps. Boggs draws his gun and we all take fighting stances.

The hydraulic door whooshes open and….

Katniss appears, her lips swollen from kissing and her dress a little rumpled, but otherwise completely unharmed. Peering around her shoulder, we can see Peeta sprawled in the cot, out cold. Or maybe just asleep.

"His orgasm was amazing," Katniss quips by way of explanation. Her breasts are still heaving for every gulp of air, and she is even fanning herself a little. "He came so hard, he passed out right after." Straightening herself, she flounces past us, swaying a little on unsteady feet as she continues to recover from the lovemaking she just endured.

Proximo, Boggs, Beetee and I all stare at each other, gobsmacked.

"What in the seven hells of the arena was that?" I ask.

"I don't know, but whatever it was, it was way too close," Boggs decides. "We are _not_ doing that again!"


	45. The Nut

**Chapter 45: The Nut**

President Coin storms into High Command like a whirlwind, a few weeks after Finnick and Annie's wedding and after my goddaughter and my son had wild sex in his holding room. Katniss hasn't been back to see Peeta since, on our orders and for her own safety – something she clearly doesn't approve of. But we have other pressing matters to deal with.

Starting with the burly man currently shackled to the head of the table.

I'll say this about President Coin: she shows no fear, as she marches right up into my old mentor's personal space. "All right, Mr. 'I-Use-Antlers-in-all-of-my-Decorating'! – cards on the table, right now!"

"Huh?" Brutus blinks at her stupidly.

"You've been playing prisoner long enough. I would have killed you a long time ago, but you can still prove useful to us. Now start flapping those jaws that I just want to punch!"

"Well, Madame President, if you really have that strong a desire to break your own hand, be my guest."

I do my best to hide a smile. Coin isn't so amused, but she doesn't take Brutus up on his cheeky offer to land a free punch. Instead, she dims the lights and pulls up a holographic schematic of a rather concave mountain. I've seen the image too many times in recent strategy meetings, and I am skeptical as to how it could be the key to turning the tide of this war. However, this is where Brutus comes in.

"Do you know what this is?" Coin asks deliberately.

"That is the mountain holding my native District 2's finest quarry. We call it The Nut," Brutus states with patriotic pride. "It used to be a volcano, and an eruption long ago caused the summit to mostly crater in."

Coin takes this all in. "My engineers and scientists tell me there is a way to make the rest of the mountain… cave in, as you so artfully put it."

A long silence hangs thick as smoke in the air. Brutus's cobalt eyes have gone huge, his bulging muscles shaking with a potent combination of horror and rage.

"No…. no, you _can't_! There'd be innocent people killed!" Even I am feeling a little queasy, as Brutus raises a fair point. Coin, however, seems absolutely unconcerned.

"Such is the nature of war, sometimes," she dismisses. "Your homeland is the last district still showing loyalty to the Capitol. We need to perform a big strike, something symbolic to obliterate morale and rally your people to our cause against Snow's regime."

"And you think this is gonna do it?" Brutus laughs bitterly. "Lady, you're just gonna make us cling to Snow all the more, especially if you're the one burying quarry miners alive."

Coin smirks deviously. "We shall see…" she purrs.

Brutus locks eyes on me for the first time. "Are you involved in this?" he demands, everything about his countenance hurt and dismayed.

I shrug, trying not to feel too much guilt. "I'm just an adviser."

"And you, Mr. Barsetti, will act as our guide into the mountain once our advance teams have breached it," Coin states. "In exchange for your help, should you survive, you will be granted full immunity and a free pardon from me. Able to return to whatever little life you should make for yourself at war's end." She bristles a little. "I am… in the business of granting immunity to Victors, it seems, even if you are a worthless Career." Brutus glares at her contemptuously.

"And what if I refuse?" he growls low.

"Then I can… make arrangements for your little harlot from Eight to get into…. shall we say, an accident?" Coin levels.

My jaw drops, and Brutus actually goes white. We (or at least I) have heard this song before. Coin is starting to talk like Snow. However underhanded it might be, however, it does the job. Brutus readily agrees to guide the rebels into taking the Nut, essentially betraying the home he holds so dear. As Boggs is signaled to take him back down to his cell, Brutus asks to speak with me alone. Stepping out into the hallway, he turns to face me.

"Maysie, you really think Panem's gonna be better off with Ice-Cold Bitch in charge?"

Though I have always been a little leery of Coin, if anyone had asked me this question several months ago, I wouldn't have hesitated to say Yes. We've all been under the thumb of the alternative – it's no fun. Now, when I can't answer emphatically either way, Brutus steps closer.

"Maysilee, I'm warning you – don't trust this cunt! There's a direct throughline from Snow to her. Nothing will change…. _Nothing_." Boggs tightens his hold under Brutus's arm, but my mentor digs his feet in.

"They're making me ship out tomorrow, right?"

I nod.

"Can you do me a favor and come down to the dungeons this evening? Bring that Dalton preacher man I've heard about with you."

* * *

That evening, as the only witness, I watch as Brutus and Cecelia Rheys exchange rings and vows. The number of Victors that have gotten married over the past several months has been encouraging to see, as we make new lives beyond the arena and the grip of the Capitol. And for Cecelia, marrying again allows her to begin to heal, from the loss of her first husband and three children.

Dalton blesses them both and Cecelia floats into Brutus's arms and kisses him. I almost become teary for this is the… happiest I have ever seen my old mentor.

"I love you, baby," he murmurs.

Cecelia beams. "And I, you." Wrapping her new husband in a close embrace, she kisses him again fiercely, holding his gaze. "Be careful," she implores.

* * *

Beetee Latier and Gale Hawthorne are leading the advance team. The explosives they have engineered manage to cause The Nut to collapse in on itself.

With the Mockingjay and her team and media handlers, I enter the largest quarry in Two to find total chaos. Smoke and fire fills the air. Rebel soldiers are advancing deeper into the mountain, guns cocked and pointed, ready to shoot any survivors who might emerge from the depths and become hostile.

Hovering close to me, Brutus's eyes dart about nervously, but he points with confidence. "There! Did your little friends blow the train tracks?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"It will probably be the only way back to the surface and out now," he says, nodding to a line of tracks. As if on cue, light appears in the tunnel beyond, and a hydraulic locomotive comes screeching up into the station. At Paylor's signal, rebel fighters surround the doors and point their weapons.

For a moment, all is quiet, save for the crackle of fires burning beyond and around us. Then –

The doors HISS open and angry miners roar as they bravely charge out of the train and attempt to fight their way out of the mountain. I ignore Brutus's pleased smile at the bravery. One rabid miner actually manages to stab a rebel soldier in the neck with a sharpened piece of granite; there is a retort of gunfire and he cries out as he falls to his knees.

Grey eyes wide with concern, Katniss dashes forward. "Wait, stop!"

Pollux lifts his camera and begins rolling, even as I try to chase after my goddaughter, but Plutarch cuts me off. "Katniss!"

The wounded quarry miner, with nothing left to lose, actually manages to grab the Mockingjay herself and threaten her with the granite blade. From the sheer loathing in his eyes, he clearly recognizes her. "Why shouldn't I just cut you down now, you bitch?"

My fingers twitch towards the blowpipe at my right hip. If I can move and load a dart fast enough, I could bring the guy down from this far range.

To her credit, Katniss shows no fear. "You're right," we actually hear her say. "Why shouldn't you kill me? Like I killed Cato. And Cato killed Thresh. And Thresh killed Clove. It just goes around and around and who wins?" Her breath comes out in a heated, angry whisper. "I am _done_ being a piece in Snow's Games. Don't you want to be too?" She glances around to the other miners, clearly ready to fight for a regime that never really cared whether they lived or died in the first place. "Don't any of you want to stop being used? Come on! Everyone who's sick of it, stand up here and join me!" Her arms are outstretched, pleading. "Please! Join us!"

There is a long silence. And then –

Gunfire explodes (I can't tell from where) and smoke rises around Katniss as she goes down. I scream and dash forward, Brutus hot on my heels. As I throw myself over my goddaughter, she is stirring, dazed, and I rip past her uniform. She has a bullet-proof vest underneath; the bullet never even came close, thank Panem!

Suddenly, the ground itself rumbles dangerously.

"Everybody OUT! It's going!" Brutus bellows. Hearing the words of their Victor, miners dash for the exits, casting down pickaxes and guns and other weapons and raising their hands up in surrender as they reach the sunlight and invading rebels come to greet them.

"They'll be others down there," Brutus is panting, as he helps me get Katniss to her feet. "The train has to go back…" and he dashes for the engine, now abandoned by its driver.

"Brutus!" I grab onto his arm and he snaps his gaze back to me.

"Someone has to help," he states solemnly.

My azure eyes sting with tears, and it isn't just from the smoke. "Brutus…."

But my mentor just smiles at me sadly. So fast that I almost miss it, he swoops in and brushes his lips against mine.

I break the innocent kiss in shock, gaping. Brutus just chuckles.

"Don't tell your hubby about that. Or Cecelia. Tell…. Tell her I love her." His smile broadens, now almost resigned. "You're gonna be all right, Maysilee Donner… You always were." And I watch helplessly as my…. my friend dives into the locomotive and reverses it back down into the collapsing mountain.

The train never resurfaces before the Nut collapses.


	46. Learn to Live Without Him

**Chapter 46: Learn to Live Without Him**

District 12 looks just as desolate as I remember it from the last time I was here, almost a year ago, when Katniss and I took a tour of the devastation soon after fleeing the Quell arena for Thirteen. Our homeland is still mostly covered with ash, the shells of the structures still standing hollow and charred.

Donner Train Station is no more – even miles of track leading into the district were blown out – so the Everdeens, Proximo, my family and I have to be brought in by hovercraft. We are told that more refugees will be arriving to rebuild and set up new lives, but that it could take up to a month or two to get everyone seeking asylum processed. Till then, isolated high on the hill in Victors' Village, we are on our own.

It's been over a month since the Capitol itself fell to the rebels. Our ground forces, led bravely by Commander Paylor, took the city street by bloody street. Coin had initially wanted to send Katniss in with the first wave… and, in a truly incomprehensible move, assign Peeta to active duty with the same unit, even before he has been cleared psychologically fit. For the first time, everyone on Coin's High Command team overruled her order, which we had the power to do. Coin was peeved, but she agreed to the alternative strategy to let Paylor lead the advance team. It turned out to be just as well, for once the Presidential Mansion itself was taken, our forces joined by starving, desperate and angry Capitol citizens (Coin and Paylor had modeled their plan of attack off an insurrection from centuries ago, known as the 2021 storming of the Capitol – which then referred to a building, not the city at large), Katniss was brought safely in by hovercraft to perform what Coin judged to be the final act of the war: assassinating a captured President Snow.

Before the execution was to take place, however, President Coin had issued a meeting with all the surviving Victors of the Hunger Games. There were nine of us at that point: myself, Katniss and Peeta. Beetee. Finnick and Annie. Johanna. Cecelia Rheys-Barsetti, dressed in black and mourning for her second husband. Connor Murphy of 7. In the meeting, Coin laid out a proposal – to hold a final, symbolic Hunger Games, this time using Capitol children.

I was shocked at how many of my Victors readily agreed to it, how close the vote was going to come. Johanna, Connor, and Cecelia all said Yes. Finnick, Annie, Beetee and Peeta voted No.

The vote came down to Katniss and I. My goddaughter surprised me in voting Yes, looking at Peeta – getting better but still not completely himself – as she did so.

I would decide whether one more Hunger Games would be held in Panem. Trapped under Coin's hawk-like stare, I quickly made a strategic move.

"I'm with the Mockingjay," I stated.

Approved 5 to 4, Coin aimed to begin preparations as soon as Snow's execution was over. Imprisoned in his own greenhouse, Snow looked older than I had ever remembered him, when Katniss and I went to visit him. He didn't deserve such pity, the monster, and looked sickly, hacking out coughs stained with blood into a handkerchief.

"Is she worth killing me for?" Snow queried my goddaughter. "Are you willing to be the piece in her Games… when you don't even know which side shot you, down in the District 2 mountain?"

Katniss had glowered at him. "Her Games have much better rules than yours."

"Like revenge?" And Snow had actually chuckled. "Oh, Miss Everdeen, I thought you would have learned something from your godmother here. I thought we agreed not to lie to each other."

We left him in his misery, but Katniss had been unusually quiet.

The morning of the execution, Katniss had entered the City Circle, stringing an arrow into the notch of her bow and taking aim at the disgraced former President of Panem, now lashed to a post. Up in the stands where Snow would often make his tribute parade addresses, I and the other living Victors were standing near Coin.

Even from so far away, I could see, feel Katniss's eyes on mine. I had nodded infinitesimally. Katniss had lifted her bow just a bit.

And fired her arrow – right into President Coin.

Bedlam had ensued after that. The crowd had rushed forward in a mob, lifting a thrashing and screaming Katniss and carrying her on their shoulders. Snow's laughter rang out throughout the circle, then grew quiet; we were only to learn later that he was crushed to death by the oncoming horde.

Katniss had been put on trial, but was eventually cleared of the assassination on the grounds of insanity. For now, Peeta has stayed behind in the Capitol, working under the honest guidance of a reformed Capitol psychiatrist, Dr. Aurelius, to sort out the last of his memories. Katniss had wanted to go and say goodbye to him, but couldn't bear to. It is unclear when, if ever, my son will come home.

Back in the present, life goes on. Refugees eventually start to arrive by the hovercraft and enter the razed landscapes that were once the Seam and Town. As the weeks drag on, they begin repurposing the structures that are still sound and also building new ones. Building new homes and new lives. My family and the Everdeens offer to rent out some of the empty homes in the Victors' Village to these people, but they proudly refuse.

There is one person, however, who – though he does not move in – comes to visit in the Village quite often.

Pollux, the Avox cameraman, has hung up his filming equipment since the end of the war, and has been looking for a fresh start. Katniss is quite happy to see him and is relieved that he survived; his presence here in Twelve seems to bring her out of the depressive funk that has settled over her countenance since arriving home. More than once, seated out on Danny's and my front porch, I have seen Katniss seated on the porch of a mansion across the street (she had elected to move into her own place alone, to give some space to Primrose, her mother and Proximo, who have set up a Healer's clinic in their living room), talking to the bashful and sweet young man in sign language. He makes her laugh. Some mornings, after rising early, I have observed the pair go out to the woods together, so Katniss can teach Pollux how to hunt.

It is around dusk one evening, and I have just returned to the Village from helping Danny and the boys continue construction on the Bakery, which we fully intend to re-open. Pausing over by the fountain, I turn to see Katniss and Pollux returning from another hunt, tired but happy. Katniss is prattling on about something, her mouth moving as fast as her hands as she tries to sign her spoken word to her close friend, who is watching her in rapture.

"I'll set up the snares tomorrow, Pollux. I aim to teach you how to shoot wild turkey, and then we can…" Her voice suddenly trails off, dying in her throat and her hands still along the broad planes of Pollux's chest, as the mute suddenly takes her face in his hands, tilts her head back and kisses her passionately, sweetly, right on the lips.

My goddaughter is completely unprepared for the confessing of his feelings, for this display of affection. Or how Pollux's hands, so deft with a camera, now wind about her waist and so easily entrap her. Even from this slight distance and unseen by them, I can hear Katniss whimper and purr in total surprise at Pollux's kiss. "Hmmm….. Mmmmm…"

After a moment or two, they break apart. Katniss's large grey eyes are blinking rather rapidly, stunned. Her kiss-swollen mouth is agape, and her cheeks are pink and flushing. She stares at Pollux in wonder.

I had seen how Katniss and Pollux became close while we were underground in Thirteen, but had never stopped to consider that Pollux's feelings had shifted to something more.

Stepping back shyly, Pollux signs something to my goddaughter. Her eyes still bulging, still gawping, Katniss signs something back (the patterns of her fingers almost identical to the ones Pollux used to communicate whatever he asked her). Thinking back to one of Katniss's first kisses with my son Peeta, I throw out a guess as to what has now been exchanged:

_Can I kiss you again?_

_May_ _I kiss you again?_ Katniss was always the talented English student in school.

To my shock, Katniss now nods dumbly. Pollux seems ecstatic as he wraps her in his arms and pulls her close. Eyes drooping, lashes fluttering, Katniss leans in and their lips meet in another, tremulous kiss.

The kiss quickly deepens and the pair become very involved, as Katniss loops her arms around Pollux's neck to embrace him. I watch clandestinely, sad and happy all at once. It is almost rueful, watching Katniss explore deeper feelings for someone all over again.

Just the same, I am relieved that Peeta is not here to see this.

_There was a time that I flew higher, was a time the wild girl running free… would be me. Now I see her feel the fire. Now I know she needs me there to share…_

Smiling softly, I turn away and creep back into my house, wanting to give the pair some privacy. But if I had continued to observe them through the window, I would have seen Pollux's hands bravely dip lower to caress Katniss's bum through the folds of her dress. I would have seen Katniss bravely raise her leg to his torso and hook it there. I would have seen her lips part and fall open against his, prying open his own so that her tongue can play and taste him where his own tongue – ripped out – cannot. I would have seen them stagger back into the wall at the entrance to the Village, Pollux moving his hips against her center, while Katniss grabs his toned buttocks in her fists and fiercely rocks back. I would have seen them break the kiss at last, gasping for air, Katniss's breasts heaving before she wordlessly takes him by the hand and leads him with purpose into her furnished but empty Victor's mansion, closing the door behind them.

* * *

The doting godmother in me just won't leave it alone, and I cross over to Katniss's place later that night to bring her a still-warm supper of the soup Dannel made, knocking once. No answer. Through the door, I can hear groans, grunts and heavy breathing coming from inside.

"Uhhhh….. Huhhhhh… Oooooh… Ahhhh… Yes, yes, fuck me, please…. I _need_ you to fuck me….. harder…. Faster….. faster….." Katniss's voice is breathless and I hear creaking as the pace is quickened.

Damn the consequences. I open the door.

Katniss is spread-eagled in a chair, her creamy thighs splayed wide as Pollux thrusts frantically into her pink, feminine beauty. The skirts of her blue Reaping dress are pushed up around her hips. The bodice has been yanked down from her curved, voluptuous breasts, the purple mounds of her nipples pebbling as Pollux takes one deep into his mouth and sucks. His one hand, large but soft and caring, palms and squeezes Katniss's left breast, and the beautiful woman pressed against him keens into his ministrations with a happy _moan_. There is a squelching sound as their bare bodies slap together in heat. Sweat mixes and pools between them as Pollux grips the back of the chair and pounds into her faster, Katniss mewling in contentment as she squirms underneath him.

Though cloaked slightly in shadow and in profile, I watch as Pollux's face tightens and contorts. He cannot make any sounds as he cums deep inside her, so Katniss makes enough noise for the both of them as, with a whimper, she cums undone all around him a moment later.

Pollux soon pulls out from where he has been sitting astride my goddaughter's hips, and turns. In the middle of wiping his member clean of sticky juices, he staggers back in shock, a silent yelp unable to come out.

A hand brushing against her swollen and sticky cunt to also cleanse herself, Katniss freezes and lets out a mortified squeak, frantically moving to redress herself in her old, blue Reaping frock.

" _Auntie_!" she squeaks. "Don't you know how to….?"

I cock one eyebrow. "I did knock."

Katniss and Pollux both look at each other, both pink in the face. Pollux looks the most chastened between the pair, and even eyes me a little fearfully. I just smile at him knowingly. "Evening, Pollux."

He signs something back before turning to Katniss, taking her hand. Holding his eyes, she nods and signs something to him. Pollux smiles and brushes his lips against hers, kissing her goodnight.

"Good… goodnight," Katniss smiles weakly, signing with her hands as her lover takes his leave.

There is silence for a while after Pollux departs. Katniss is eyeing me nervously, wringing her hands a little.

"Are you angry with me?"

I shrug. "Why would I be angry?" I cross past her to place the pot of soup on the stove and ladle some of it into a bowl. "A woman has needs. Desires. It isn't wrong to want to have then sated."

I can feel Katniss watching me, still hesitant. Finally, she gets out:

"Pollux is sweet. He's kind, and he's gentle with me."

Evidently, she's not going to broach the ghost in the room. So I'll do it. "You used to say the same about my son."

Katniss whimpers at the reference, but finally manages. "I need to be away from him, Auntie. I need some time without Peeta, and I think he needs some time away from me. He has to find himself."

"So if and until he does, and finds his way back here… what then?" I float casually.

Another beat. "I…. I don't know." Turning back, I can see her biting her lip. "Please don't judge me…"

"I'm not judging you," I smile at her. I lay a hand on her shoulder. "Katniss: if the love is worth it…. no matter who it's with… then fight for it. Follow your heart. Someone once said you have plenty of love to give, so even if there's someone whom you'll be unable to love…. in a certain way…. That person will survive. Because you'll care for them anyway, no matter what your feelings. You're the most caring person I know."

* * *

**A/N: Song Credit: I Miss the Mountains from _Next to Normal_.**


	47. It IS You

**Chapter 47: It IS You**

I wake up and emerge into the Village one fine, spring morning, only to have him arrive with no warning.

I am meeting Katniss over at her place for tea on a lazy Saturday; Pollux is down in Town helping other refugees continue to rebuild. I don't know when he will be back, and Katniss doesn't say.

But someone _does_ come back, as we later realize when a frantic knocking at the door bears Primrose, blue eyes huge and spluttering, clearly in a state of shock. Following her almost frantic beckoning out the door, we cross the street and head into my mansion's back garden. A man is kneeling in the dirt, planting flowers that bear the name of my littlest, surrogate niece.

Katniss sways to a stop, freezing, her grey eyes bulging in disbelief. A hand has come to her mouth, and as the man turns to face her, she gazes at him as though she has never seen him before.

"Peeta…" she whispers.

Peeta appraises her tiredly but with relief. "Katniss."

Katniss lowers her hand from her face, a hardly-daring-to-believe-it smile gracing her lips. "You came home."

Peeta nods. "Yeah. It's me."

Almost in a trance, like she is coming out of a dream, Katniss floats over to my youngest son. Taking a strand of his blonde hair between her fingers, she caresses it bemusedly, somewhat skeptically, sizing him up. Only when she turns her head to gaze into his deep blue eyes does a beaming and radiant smile of recognition cross her face.

"It _is_ you!" she cries out.

Peeta smiles weakly back, and he and Katniss embrace and kiss.

* * *

It is getting on dusk, one night not long after my son's return, as I open the doors of my armoire and rummage through it.

"I brought it with me to Thirteen… then back again when we came home. I had first retrieved it when we passed through after the fire bombings following the Quell."

Behind me, in her blue Reaping dress which she will soon change out of, Katniss is watching me curiously. "Why? What is it?"

Hand closing around the garment bag, I flash a smile at my goddaughter over my shoulder. "This." And I deposit it with a flourish onto Dannel's and my bed, unzipping the front.

Gaping, Katniss lifts the white bridal gown out of its casing, admiring its beauty. "Oh, my Panem…. It's… beautiful." She turns to stare at me. "Is this….?"

I smile fondly. "Most women in Merchant families view their bridal dress as a family heirloom, passed down from mother to daughter. My mother gave this to my sister when she got married, and my sister gave it to me when your godfather and I wed. I… I took this to Thirteen in the hopes that I could pass it down to Madge, my niece." I wipe an errant tear from my eye. "Since… since she didn't survive, I thought I would pass this down to you – something borrowed."

Tears are also slipping down Katniss's cheeks, and my heart clenches. "Do… do you like it?"

"I love it!" she weeps. "I love you, Auntie!" And she throws her arms around me and we laugh.

"I always wanted a daughter," I smile at her sentimentally. "And soon, I'll have one. Who better than you? – you've always been the closest thing I've got."

Katniss gasps. "Thank you." Blinking back more tears, she holds out her wedding dress in front of her, taking in its beauty again. "Help me put it on?"

Choking back more tears, I nod and help her into it. As I adjust the bodice, Katniss asks:

"Auntie? Did… did Mother have a dress like this? She grew up Merchant, and…."

"True, but she had no choice but to wear her best Reaping clothes when she Toasted the bread with your father. Marrying across class lines was frowned upon in those days, and when your parents got married, your mother's family disowned her. She was not allowed to have your grandmother's wedding dress passed down to her. It… it was a very hasty Toasting between your mom and your dad, to say the least, but it wasn't filled with any less love." Having finished attending to her, I step back admiringly and offer my soon-to-be…. daughter-in-law my arm. "Shall we?"

Katniss beams wetly. "We shall." Looping her arm through mine, we pass through my mansion and exit out to the street, crossing into the living room of the Everdeens.

Before a roaring hearth, Peeta is standing proudly in a tailored suit, eyes only for the one girl he has always loved. In the absence of her father, I emotionally give Katniss away. The guest list is small, the ceremony quiet. Pollux is here; he and Katniss navigated their feelings gamely and parted amicably after Peeta returned. I understand they are still good friends.

Joining hands, Peeta offers Katniss a piece of bread. He feeds it to her, and she feeds a piece to him. They exchange rings and vows.

"Katniss Magenta Everdeen…. with this ring, I thee wed."

"Peeta Haymitch Mellark…. with this ring, I thee wed."

Glancing between them with a smile, Dalton – just moved to District 12 – blesses the couple with a smile. "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss."

Beaming, laughing, Katniss and Peeta leap into each other's arms and kiss passionately, the blushing bride lifted off her feet, as we all erupt into cheers around them.


	48. The End

**Chapter 48: The End**

They play in the Meadow. The grey-eyed, dark-haired boy running to keep up with his blonde-haired, blue-eyed older sister on chubby legs. From where I am nestled in my husband's arms on the picnic blanket, we watch dotingly as our grandchildren leap into their father's arms. Peeta picks up little Haymitch and spins him around, Gilla prancing at his feet and demanding in her prissy voice to be picked up too.

Seated next to us, the skirts of her sundress fanned out around her, Katniss smiles soflty as she bounces her baby boy – Beech – in her arms. All at once, a cry splits the air as the babe awakes.

"Oh, sssh…. Sssh….." Katniss tickles him with her finger. "Did you have a nightmare?"

Over on a tree swing at the far end of the Meadow, I observe Belle's golden curls – graying slightly now – whip behind her like a banner as her husband, Proximo, pushes her jovially. They were married soon after Katniss and Peeta had their first child, Katniss giving her mother happily away so that she and her new husband could Toast the bread. At the base of that tree's trunk, Prim, now a gorgeous young woman, has her head resting in Rory Hawthorne's lap, a book lying open on her chest. Glancing up to him, she and Rory steal a kiss; they'll be married in the fall.

Back beside me, Katniss is still talking to her littlest one. "I have nightmares too. Someday I'll explain it to you – why they came. Why they won't ever go away…." She leans in close, like she's going to tell baby Beech a secret. "But I'll tell you how I survive it. I make a list in my head, of all the good things I've seen someone do…. Every little thing I can remember. It's like a game: I do it over and over. Gets a little tedious after all these years, but…. there are much worse Games to play."

I smile at her proudly, giggling when Danny gets into my line of vision to steal a kiss from my lips. Giggling, I pull him close and kiss him back, savoring this moment. Wishing I could freeze it right now, and live in it forever. In this promise that life can go on, despite all that came before. _This_ is the true glory with honor that Brutus once spoke of (in a way, he was right all along), and I aim to hold onto it.

For what my goddaughter, my daughter-in-law, says is all too true: there really are much worse Games to play.

* * *

**A/N: And that's it, folks. I started writing this on December 3rd, 2020. Wow, has it been a journey - the longest fic I have written ever (both in word count and in chapter count). 222 pages in Word. But Maysilee was worth it. She was worth getting this story right. To all my readers and reviewers, thank you, and I now bid you adieu. Glory with honor.**


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